


The Wonderful Life of Mister Schnee

by Fantastic_Tales



Category: RWBY
Genre: Comedy, Drama, F/F, Family Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 42
Words: 191,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28513113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantastic_Tales/pseuds/Fantastic_Tales
Summary: What would you do with all the riches of the world? Relax? Good works? Party? Well, one man from earth is about to find his answer to the question when he wakes up one day as Mr. Schnee. He better find his answer quick, though, because his daughter just kissed a faunus on live television!
Relationships: Blake Belladonna/Weiss Schnee
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35
Collections: RWBY





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticisms welcome.

**THE WONDERFUL LIFE OF MISTER SCHNEE**

** PART ONE **

___________________

**BOOK ONE**

**INTRODUCTION**

**Chapter 1**

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

Sharp eyes snapped open, as if having forgotten the patterned lethargy which overcame them every morning.

Instinctively, his hand reached for where he knew there was nothing and tapped the scroll that lie there, abruptly silencing the annoyingly pleasant ring of the alarm.

Before his still groggy mind could process the incongruity, his body acted, pushing his arms back and raising his body up. From his new vantage point, he could make out the soft bumps his legs formed under the fluffy, white cover that blanketed his gargantuan bed. Around him was a clean and well designed, if sparsely decorated, bedroom; covering the floor, if he'd taken the effort to lean himself over the distant edge of his mattress, he would have seen the warm, red carpet which decorated the space and was itself decorated with a large compass.

He wasn't paying attention to any of that, however. He was too busy tumbling out of bed and hopping about on each foot, screaming.

"HAhh, HAhh, HAhh," he yelled quietly, taking strange strides on unfamiliar legs. His teeth didn't fit, his fingers were in the wrong place, his mouth tasted weird, _nothing was right_.

It didn't hurt, or even feel bad, per-se; it was just disorienting, like looking at those moving-illusion pictures, except the moving illusion was his entire body, bones and all.

It was the little things that set off this reaction, the minute twitches and strangely calibrated movements, along with a quickly fading vertigo that overtook his senses. This reaction was why he was half walking and half running towards the large, personal mirror that stood opposite his bed. And soon, he was leaning over the cabinet that supported the mirror, staring into the deep, blue eyes and hardened face of Mr. Schnee, the wealthiest individual on Remnant. Those were _his_ eyes, however. That was _his_ face in the mirror.

Moving his hand to gingerly touch at his cheek, he watched, entranced, as the reflection moved to do the same.

This couldn't be a dream, he accepted: Dreams consisted of things you knew, and he'd never known the impossible feeling of being in another person's body. Curiously, he took in his new figure, his gaze shifting across the reflection before a flash of blue and white caught his interest. Slowly, his new, and somewhat sensitive, eyes were drawn upwards to gaze at the words which hung above him.

"eenhcS?" he read in confusion, turning swiftly afterwards to look at the space above his bed.

"Schnee" the finely embroidered and snowflake-themed crest read. 'Am I in Germany?' the man thought, 'In the future?' his thought pattern continued, observing the paper-thin scroll that glowed softly on the mattress.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three light, chipper, knocks resounded across the heavy oak of the bedroom door, startling him as they echoed throughout the cavernous room around him to become an ominous rumble.

'Geeze, who sleeps in a place like this, Dracula?' He cringed slightly as the sound slammed against his eardrums.

His thoughts cut short as a feminine voice called, "Mr. Schnee? Are you ok?"

The muffling effect of the heavy door did nothing to conceal the urgency and worry lilting the voice.

"I'm ok," he rushed to respond, feeling strange as unfamiliar lips mouthed the words.

"Are you sure? I heard some bangs, and some yelling," the woman continued.

"I'm perfectly ok," he said, more forcefully.

'Perfectly ok?' he lip synced with a confused expression, 'since when do I say that?'

"I just, uh, knocked something over," he continued, searching for something to distract the woman with.

"Oh! Do you want me to call-"

"By the way," he interrupted, "how is my schedule for today?"

Yeah, schedules. This Mister Schnee fellow looked like a man with schedules. Schedules for days, even. He smiled at his quick thinking.

"Well, you're relatively clear for today, sir! You just have to host the Grand Opening Gala for the Messerschmitts. The staff finished preparing the ballroom this morning and the first guests should arrive at eight," The woman answered in a chipper tone, seemingly having forgotten her anxiety. "Oh," she continued, as if remembering something, "You've also got five voicemails, none of them seem critical, however."

"Understood, leave me while I prepare. I'll meet with you in about an hour or so," he said, absentmindedly accepting her adieus while entranced with the new, strange manner of speech that seemed to have overtaken him.

Stepping closer to the door, he listened with restrained lungs as her footsteps receded further down the hallway he imagined lay just beyond the door. Once the muffled footfalls disappeared, at last, into the distance, Mr. S retraced his steps until he found himself standing, once more, between the foot of the bed and the cabinet mirror.

Still, after an aching moment, impatient jitters ran up and down his body and he slowly turned his head. The room seemed endless in its possibilities despite its size, and a paralysis of choice seemed to choke him. He had an entire world waiting out there! What would he do? What _could_ he do?

Looking back to every morning he'd woken up to thus far for inspiration, he decided to start by cleaning up; hopping in and out of the shower as quickly as he could, he brushed down his hair and mustache into the naturally smooth lines they seemed to fall into shortly before donning the neatly folded suit that lay on his bed-side desk. Following this, he...again failed to think of a plan of action and took a rest, sitting down before the cabinet and staring at the intimidating selection of colognes that lined one of the drawers.

As he thought over the situation, he looked down through the paper-thin scroll he spun around in between his palms. In any other scenario, he knew he would have been overjoyed to study such a technical marvel, but he couldn't be bothered to do much more than coldly analyze the touch screen and look over the basic functionalities of the...phone...computer...device of sorts. The feeling of general anxiety that overtook him with the knowledge that he was in another person's body was pervasive and wearing. From what he'd gathered, he was in the body of a "Mister Schnee" in future…well, Montana or Alaska going by the accents and the arctic conditions outside his bedroom window. He worked in a company and might be rich. Actually, he was probably loaded considering he had servants and was "hosting" parties.

Of course, the right thing to do would be to reveal himself before he inadvertently got this guy fired...buuuut there was nothing wrong with testing the waters before taking such drastic action. Who knows, maybe "body snatchers" like him were common in the future and immediately put to death once discovered. The fact that today was "party day" gave him more reason to keep up the act; after all, he had, as of right now, at least one day where he could relax and learn more about this future without distraction. This gave him a chance to act on his own terms, at least to some extent, in any case. And, as a bonus, he didn't have to worry about messing up anything important. Sure, these fancy parties or galas or whatever had a lot of rules and procedure, but he was sure his servants would take care of that. Besides, a gaff at a party makes the Saturday news if it's big enough; a mistake on the job could cost lives and livelihoods... He shuddered at the thought, a lingering sense of dread developing in his gut as old news reports of exploding chemical plants ran through his memory. Seriously, unless this guy's job had something to do with Chemical or Aerospace engineering, he was gonna get fired on day one.

He absentmindedly grabbed a purple cologne in a clear glass, applying the concoction before placing it back into the drawer and heading to the west wall of the room. The "west wall", as he'd termed it, was actually a large bookcase, packed to the brim with a blue wall of velvet-bound books. He whistled in appreciation as he craned his head to see the top shelf of the collection, noticing a switch at the side which would presumably conveyor-belt the books to his level. The book he was looking for, however, was within arms reach, worn with the touch of many readings.

He frowned as he pulled the book out and looked at the full title.

"History…" It read, "...of Remnant."

He opened to the first page of the book.

"Man, born from dust, yadda, yadda, yadda, darkness, blah, blah, blah, Creatures of Grimm?" He frowned at the book, flipping to a random page decorated with an anatomically accurate drawing of a, "Nevermore, how original." He rolled his eyes at the name, looking at the massive raven which graced the page alongside a scale drawing of a human.

He placed the book back into its place. He was here to read about the history of the world, not to learn about the long winded backstory to a long winded fantasy novel.

He skimmed through the titles on the bookshelf, reading...

"Technology...of Remnant," He mumbled, placed the book back into its place with a bit more force.

"Countries...of Remnant" He was starting to get mad.

"An analysis of Dust Vein decomposition patterns...In FUCKING REMNANT!"

Seriously, he thought it was annoying in _his_ time, when every franchise just HAD to release twelve "world building" books of bullshit. The trend only seemed to have gotten worse since then, however. No matter, he would just find an actual history book, even if he had to go to the library instead of scrounging through someone's fantasy book collection. It was just as the thought of looking things up on his new phone hit him that he heard three, resounding knocks from his door once more.

"Sir, the first guests are arriving," the woman politely reported from the other side of the door.

'Already?' he thought, turning to look at the morning sun shining through the window. 'Wait, did she mean Eight AM? How long is this party gonna last?' he pocketed his scroll and hurriedly moved towards the door.

He was approaching the exit when a terrifying thought hit him: he didn't know the woman's name. If he was right about her being his secretary, then getting her name would be the key to getting everyone else's. But he'd have to call her _something_ in the meantime! '

What am going to I call her?' He thought, frantically cycling through the options.

'"Sweetie?"...No,' -- he shook his head -- 'too personal.'

'Or maybe "Hun?"...Nope.'

He closed in on the door with sweaty palms, desperately searched for an appropriate nickname as he, cringing in anticipation, slowly opened the door, looked through, and immediately thought:

'Oh, thank the greatest good of goodnesses, she has a name tag!' He rejoiced.

The light blue tag hung over her right breast reading, "Schwarz."

'Schwarz, huh? Strange name, but it's the future or whatever.' he dismissed the peculiarity and lifted his gaze from the tag. A pale face stared back up at him with gleaming dark eyes and softly curving strands of coal-dark hair running down on either side.

"Good morning, Schwarz," he tested, hoping that there wasn't a secret handshake he'd just forgotten to do.

"And a Good Morning to you too, mister Schnee!" she replied with a chipper tone, rising up onto her toes in a short hop at the greeting, her fur-trimmed skirt twirling heavily at her knees as she did so. 

The richly textured, black of the hem of her skirt was gleaming when compared against the almost uniform darkness of the rest of her outfit, the dark fabric only being broken up by the sable, fur hem running along every edge of her velvet jacket and the white cloth that covered her chest, just underneath the light-yellow, short collar that walled around her neck. All of this was tied together with a grey belt adorned with two white, rectangular attachments that hung down on either side like earrings, reaching down to her knees with their length and swinging silently with her every movement.

His heart lightened at her expression, and at the confirmation that he'd apparently greeted her correctly. A wave of confidence filled him as he closed the door behind him and walked down the hall, Schwarz following behind with a large notepad.

'Yeah, I've got this. It's just a party. I'd have to be, like, an advanced level idiot to mess this up.' our new Mr. Schnee thought with a smirk.

"Oh, and, it seems there is another matter for you to attend to," Schwarz tentatively probed.

"Yes?" he replied.

"Your daughter, Weiss, has sent a message. She says she'd like to accept your invitation to appear at the Gala today after all, but on the condition that she be allowed to bring guests," Schwarz said with an even, calming tone. "Mr. Schnee", for his part, didn't pay much mind to her hesitation; it sounded, to him, more like a formality if his own daughter had to "accept an invitation" to a party.

"Of course," he said, rearranging his cuff-links "invite her. How many guests is she bringing anyways?"

"Really?" Schwarz exclaimed, wide eyed. "I mean, of course, sir. She's bringing three guests, though I feel you should know that one of them is coming as a date, a girl by the name of," she looked down at her tablet, "Blake Belladonna."

"You say that like I'd mind," he said absentmindedly, nodding at his surroundings. 'Yeah, I'm definitely lost.'

"It's not that sir. It's just that there are some... discrepancies with Ms. Belladonna's guest sheet," Schwarz said, clearly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation.

"Look, Schwarz," he said, looking around at his surroundings and trying not to seem as lost as he was, "If she's human, than let her through." He chuckled at his own joke.

"That's just the thing, sir," Schwarz said with the gravest tone imaginable. "Her guest sheet," she paused, "It doesn't SAY whether she's a human."

He paused for a moment, processing the statement. Then his face brightened, "HAHAHAHA," he laughed immediately as the statement clicked. 'Holy crap, who knew Schwarz was so funny! She even had me going with that whole serious business persona!'

He interrupted Schwarz's uncomfortable chuckle as he wiped a tear from his eye. "Look, Schwarz, remind me to give you a raise sometime," he said, patting her shoulder and causing her eyes to glow once more as she looked up at him.

"Just invite them over and focus on the rest of your duties," he finished.

"Yes, sir," Schwarz replied, expertly hiding her worries. Mr. Schnee could take care of such things. After all, he'd been navigating the swirling politics of the Atlas corporate head for longer than she'd been alive. She was sure she was just being paranoid if he thought nothing untoward could happen.

'Yeah, things are going great,' he smiled, 'looks like nothing would come to foil this party day after all, considering how dedicated a crew I have.'

"By the way," he asked, looking back at Schwarz as she followed him.

"Yes, sir?" Schwarz answered.

"Where are we going?"

* * *

Weiss read and reread the message as if pinned to her scroll, scanning over the words as if another glace could make them any more believable. She'd only "accepted" the invitation as a joke. She'd never imagined he'd actually go through with it, considering he knew well enough how she thought of him.

Well, no matter. His loss was her gain!

Of course, she didn't lie on the guest sheets, that would've been a felony after her father and his friends in politics got through with her. But, she _did_ omit the fact that Blake was a Faunus, and when the time came...she'd reveal the truth to a shocked audience!

'The daughter of "Mister Schnee", dating a Faunus!' Weiss smiled at the potential headlines as well as the look on his face when he found out at a party of all his colleagues.

It wouldn't ruin him by any means, she admitted not too gladly. She didn't have the means or the stomach to seriously damage the company so many good people relied upon for work and dust, even if was being led by _him_. No, it would simply mean he would have to disassociate from her completely, like she'd wished for all along. Furthermore, the press, heckling and rumors would ensure that this year would be the most tiring, work filled experience of his entire life! But, most importantly of all, It would shatter that facade of a "happy family" he hid behind. That self aggrandizing lie of a healthy home he worked to ensure the world saw when they looked at the Schnees. All of this while never showing her...his own family, a fraction of the attention and care he devoted to his own image!

She took a shuddering breath as she calmed herself. No need to ruin her day thinking of such things.

Fluttering her eyes open with practiced grace, she forced a smile and a confident look; that was supposed to make you even a little happier by itself, wasn't it? Turning back to her scroll, she continued to scheme, all the while calling for Blake, saying "Get the girls, and put on your dress Bow on!...Yes, the one that comes off easily!"

This was going to be the worst party ever, and Weiss was going to love it!

* * *

"I'm honored, thank you," he smiled, adding some half thought out declaration to each new face that greeted him with a smile.

"Mr Schnee" greeted guest after guest after guest after guest until his hand ached. The novelty of having a line of people waiting at the entrance to shake his hand wore away as quickly as his patience and soon became as meaningless as his fake smile. He sighed when he saw the several dozen or so people left standing before him, observing the impressively dressed adults that formed the line and forced along their blank faced children with every step forward. The "guests", it turned out, were the VIP's who'd be treated to a tour of his palace, and yes, it was a palace, until the party began as, apparently, the party proper wouldn't actually start until eight o'clock at night. Sneaking a look at his watch, he saw that it was nine o'clock in the morning when he finished greeting the last of the guests, so he would have about eleven hours to himself before the start of the party proper he calculated, double checking his math for lack of anything else to do as he shook hands.

Schwarz stood waiting when he entered back into the palace, the guests being corralled together by a cheerful tour guide behind him.

"Long line?" she asked with a familiar smirk.

"Of course," he said, with a tired stance.

"Well, we've got to go oversee the processing systems floor next," she said looking down at her tablet as she swiped through some files and time tables.

"I thought you said I had an empty day?" he asked.

"Hahaha," Schwarz laughed a light laugh, "and we both know that means just your usual mountain-load of work," she responded with familiar tradition. "But don't worry," she continued, "I've recently made some adjustments to your regular schedule. If you don't have any special obligations, you should be able to finish by seven o'clock if you get to your office by eight!" she said with a sincere smile, flipping the tablet around and presenting the multicolored time chart as if it were a finger painting she was especially proud of.

"Mr Schnee" internally screamed as he pondered the idea of eleven hour work days.

"Of course," he swallowed, "but put a pin on that time table for now and walk me to the floor. I'd like to talk with you."

"What about, sir?" Schwarz looked up at him.

"Huhhh," he breathed a deep and dramatic sigh he'd been planning for hours. "Tell me, Schwarz," he continued with a heavy tone, "What did I hire you to do?"

"Uhm, to schedule your affairs, filter your communications and head your security, sir," she replied mechanically, as if reading from a list.

'Wow, she does all that?' He thought.

"And how long have you been working in this position," he asked, as if they both already knew the answer.

"Two years, six months, sir" she replied in that same tone.

"Yes, of course," he drifted off with a thoughtful tone, having run out of questions to ask.

"Is… is there any particular reason you wanted to talk about this?" Schwarz asked, failing to hide the deep worry that colored her voice.

"Oh, it's nothing to worry about," he assured. "I've just been thinking about something," he lied cryptically. "Would you mind sending me a file with the essentials of my work. I want to look over my things. Include the family history too, actually. With pictures."

"Uh, yes sir," Schwarz didn't ask any of the myriad questions which came to mind.

The rest of the time passed quickly for "Mister Schnee", consisting mostly of an adrenaline flooded series of decisions about company essentials, everything from what regions new sites should be placed at to which markets they should target most heavily in the next quarter. It was during this time of the day, when he sat at the head of a table surrounded by an assortment of fancy suits, that it fully sunk in just how big of a deal he was now, as well as how big of a deal his mistakes would become.

He finished the work day off just before he was due to arrive at the party, still reeling from his momentous realization. Still, today's decisions were mostly multiple choice, and any mistakes were, probably, easily fixable. He would just attend this party, have Schwarz clear his week, cram about history all night, and make a decision by next Monday: even if that decision won him a nice, new straight Jacket.

* * *

"Weiss would have to sit to his right, definitely," she muttered. "But then, I'd have to move the Messerschmitts eldest down to sit by…ugh, no, she just got married to..."

Schwarz almost frowned as she wracked her brain, looking with frustration at the seating chart layed out in front of her while occasionally glancing towards the mess of papers scattered out to the side. The papers showed tabled information on all the guests, along with lines of relationships literally drawn between the names with bold marker strokes. She wouldn't dream of getting mad at Mr. Schnee, but it was hard not to feel frustrated after his last minute change to the guest list. Beyond the fact that his daughter was unpredictable at times and that her guests were unknowns, Schwarz would only have several hours to rearrange the seating chart!

Schwarz bit into her sandwich as she played with the names projected on her tablet, sliding them around the scale model of the main dining table. There were many tables at this party, but _this_ table was key. This table would hold the most influential and powerful families in Atlas, who could, and often would, forge the greatest dynasties at simple "parties" such as this one.

And these families, like many other powerful families with long histories, were quite thin skinned.

A single misplaced seat, putting together marrying age children of the wrong couple, unbalancing the hierarchy of seating orders, putting this person or that too far from the edge without proper reason… would bring fire and fury upon the "lowly secretary" who was playing like a god with the place and movement of these old and powerful names; and, in the course of their movement, all of them orbited the name of Mister Schnee, the most rich and the most powerful among the rich and powerful of Remnant.

Schwarz sighed as she rushed to complete the seating chart before her lunch break was up. Mister schnee had entrusted her to complete this, and she wouldn't disappoint!

* * *

He stared up in amazement at the seemingly endless height of the room, his spirits lifting with the expanding space as he left behind a tense workday and stepped into the comforting warmth of the ball room. The arched ceiling seeming to hang weightlessly above despite its size, supporting a gargantuan chandelier in is center that radiated a warm, yellow-white light which seemed to color the atmosphere as it glittered against the tiling. He knew he was rich, but he'd never appreciated that fact until he stepped into this twelve story art piece, with intricate stonework etched away in every corner and richly colored tapestries draping the walls and support structures.

The architectural inspiration, along with many other curiosities of the future, worked to convince him that Germany got at least a partial victory out of World War III.

A gloriously blue banner hung down from the ceiling, reaching from one end of the room to the other with bold letters spelling out the word "SCHNEE."

He tried not to seem too amazed at the technological wonders which surrounded him, though it was hard not to get excited at seeing an actual, real life, robot.

He soon focused his attention back onto the rest of the party and moved away from the massive doorway that enframed him. Stepping down the wide, marble staircase, he soon arrived down at the main floor, mingling into the crowd as he released Schwarz to enjoy the party, practically having to force her away from her duties of following him around and working. He noticed she never seemed to stray too far away from him, though, casually talking to other party goers as she discreetly glanced over at him once and again, as if asking "are you SURE you don't need anything?" It was the best he could hope for, he guessed, shrugging.

"Hello there, Jacquez," a confident voice came from his side, interrupting his reverie and revealing a beautiful woman with flowing blonde hair and the reddest lipstick he'd ever seen.

"Hello," he greeted calmly, "who are you, again?" he asked in a casual fashion, too late to stop himself from saying something revealing.

"Oh, straight to the insults, Jacquez?" she sneered in that still calm tone as she glared up and down at him. "Usually, we wait until after the backhanded compliments for those."

He wasn't sure who she was or who exactly she thought she was, but the way she said "Jacquez", with an annoying stressing of the syllables, irked him greatly.

"Is there any reason I should know you?" he responded, less concerned with insulting her now than he had been prior.

"I feel like your time at the top has softened you if you can't remember even my little old name," she said, poison on her tongue.

"You weren't on the VIP list, you see. I don't recognize shaking your hand this morning," he said, trying to maintain civility even as her mannerisms drove him further and further from that goal.

She paused with a cold silence, looking at him with a dangerous glare as if he'd just kicked her dead mother.

"Huhhh," she took a calming breath, her wine glass shaking as if she were working to keep the liquid from splashing onto his face.

'I...probably shouldn't have said that,' he thought just before she spoke again.

"Perhaps, I was wrong about your softness," she said, chuckling. "It seems you've gone _fully senile_ if you think you can get away with comparing me to those heel-licking, title purchasing, wannabe robber barons that you hand out those little vip stickers of yours to."

"Uh-"

"Know this, Schnee," she barreled on. "You can hide if from your pet secretary over there," she looked over his shoulder to Schwarz, "and you can even hide it from the press and your friends on the up, but don't think for a second you've managed to hide it from me. I, and many of the people here, know you're crumbling, and I'll be the first to dance on the ashes of whatever burnt out relic of a legacy you manage to leave behind when you do," she finished, smiling meanly. She whirled about dramatically, her red dress swirling, and walked away with clicking heels as soon as she finished her tirade.

With the slight exception of a weird coffee addict in a green suit, the rest of the party went relatively normally; he spent most of it going about between various groups, asking how the party was going, exchanging pleasantries, and moving on to other guests to ask after them. He got similar reactions of delight and surprise whenever he dropped in, except for when visiting one person, a person who left enough of an impression on him that he'd remember his name after the night was over...Jon Braun.

Jon initially caught our new Mister Schnee's attention, who we will call "Mr. S" from now on, by the extreme shock he showed at his presence. Mr. S was used to the surprise he got from people at this point, but this was no ordinary surprise. This was an eyes wide open, "can I believe my eyes?" kind of experience. Of course, they soon hit it off...

...

"So you work on rockets for the military?" Mr. S asked.

"Yes," Jon answered. "Well, I used to anyway. The team's being disbanded, I'm getting moved over to engine design." Jon replied with a regretful tone.

"They're disbanding the entire rocket team?" Mr. S was incredulous. He'd worked on rockets in the past and unless something incredible happened, he wasn't imagining their obsolescence. "Surely the military isn't so short sighted. They'd at least want to keep the experts for missile design, wouldn't they?" Mr. S asked.

"Oh, of course," Jon replied, "I'm apologize for having mislead you," he quickly amended, "you see, I was actually talking about...well...rockets to get into space," he cringed internally as he waited for the raucous laughter he'd gotten so used to hearing after that statement.

"Well, of course," Mr S. replied. "It's long past due for serious investment in the exploitation of space."

"R-really?" If it were possible, Jon looked even more surprised than previously, as if he'd just seen a unicorn and that unicorn was also richest-man-on-remnant Mr. Schnee.

"Yes, what exactly were you working on?" Mr. S leaned in with intense interest, dying to hear how rocket technology evolved into the future.

"Well, I can't really go into the details of it, just the stuff the public already knows about," Jon said apologetically, though still with that look of incredulous surprise that bordered on fear.

"Tell me anyways," Mr. S insisted.

"Well, we were trying to develop rocket systems," he said. Adding after a short pause, "trying to bypass the dust barrier."

Of course, having worked as Mr. Schnee himself for one day, he'd doubtless been exposed to "dust." Nobody went over the basics of it with him, but apparently it had a crazy-high energy density and came in different varieties which were named after the elements for some reason, probably a marketing gimmick.

"Any troubles with the engines?"

"Oh, no, the engines were basically modified Atlas thrusters, we didn't have any trouble with the design..." Jon replied, putting emphasis on "design."

Mr. S was surprised to see the Atlas family of rockets still holding out this far into the future, but he was curious nonetheless.

"What problems did you experience, then?" Mr. S asked.

"Well, I don't have to tell this to you of all people, of course, but dust doesn't work in the upper atmospheres. We weren't able to get around that." Jon said simply.

"You couldn't get enough speed in the lower atmospheres? What eccentricities did you try?"

"Unrealistic eccentricities," Jon replied dryly, his eyes opening in surprise, now fully wondering if this man actually was Mr. Schnee. Was he on one of those hidden camera shows? Was this some hazing ritual they pulled on the new guys? Was he dreaming?

"Did you try carrying your own air as propellant?" Mr. S asked, feeling silly as soon as he'd asked.

"We tried. We think it might be the altitude itself which affects the dust rather than the air density," he whispered intensely as he spoke. He'd never thought being chosen to represent the Atlas Military at a ball would lead to such engrossing conversations. Even the hint that Mr. Schnee had _heard_ of rockets would have been enough to tickle that hopeful part of him, but this...

Mr. Schnee was about to ask why they didn't just use a chemical rocket for the second stage when Jon asked, "I don't mean to be rude, but you seem very knowledgeable about the subject."

"I've been researching-" Mr. S replied just as a heavy bell rung through the ball room, quieting the guests and signaling the start of the dinner.

"I am extremely sorry," Schwarz said with intense worry as she took Mr. S and lead him to his seat at the other end of the dining hall, staying stone silent as she led him the rest of the way.

'Stupid, Stupid, Stupid' she chastised herself in her thoughts. 'Of course he only allowed Weiss and her friends to attend so that the Messerschmitts would be moved down four seats. This would move the Frau's down as well due to the recent marriage, and that would've opened a seat for the Atlas military advisory to sit next to Mr. Schnee without there being a scene! It was all so obvious!'

Schwarz resisted the urge to facepalm in polite company.

'Thanks to my slowness, Mr. Schnee had to spend half the night talking to some no-name military advisor when he should have been talking to the heads! And His daughter is still here! No wonder he didn't want me around!" she gripped onto her napkin nervously as they approached the head of the dining table.

'Ok, calm yourself, Schwarz.' Schwarz took a deep breath 'He still managed to spare some time for everyone, even if he was a bit curt. He'll handle the rest at dinner and you can apologize later.' Finally, she escorted Mr. Schnee to the head of the table, with his daughter and her friends lined up on his right and another family sitting to his left.

She passed by Weiss and company on her way down the table to her own seat, and noted the bright, though relatively respectable clothing they wore. 'At least she bothered not to make a scene out of them,' she thought, knowing exactly how hunters and huntresses in training could get at parties. 'Perhaps this could end simply," she thought, her heart pounding more than it usually did during these events.

…..

"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice boomed across the silent ballroom as he stood at his seat, "it is with the greatest honor that I host this party during such a significant date in our.."

Mr S. started reading off the teleprompter and giving a small toast about a new business opening or something; he wasn't really paying attention to what he was saying. No, he was more focused on the camera's dotting the room. Not security cameras, mind you. Full blown, HD news cameras. Some of them clung to the walls and columns, hidden from the casual glance as if they were a part of the architecture. Others were attached to drones, circling high above like vultures and almost touching the ceiling in their lazy flight.

'Oh, so this is one of _those_ parties,' he noted, taking a breath. Nothing to be worried about, he'd finish the toast and they'd probably edit the rest of the night out considering it would consist of people eating and chattering to each other for an hour, he assured himself.

Mr. S sat down to light applause after finishing his speech and dug in. The party had quite a nice spread, he noted, sinking his teeth into some steak soup with a fancy, some might call pretentious, side of Risotto. He kept a sly eye on his table companions, making sure he mimicked their actions and didn't use the wrong fork or something. Thankfully, the people at this table just dug in; it seemed the complicated myriad of rules he expected didn't apply during dinner. Seriously, some guy in the corner was practically inhaling alcohol.

"Weiss," he said, turning to his daughter, well, "daughter." At the same time, she turned back to look at him with a decidedly neutral expression.

"Yes, father?" she replied.

"How have you enjoyed the ball?" He continued evenly, deciding to overlook the fact that she spoke like she was raised in the forties.

"It was an adequate gathering," she replied, looking straight ahead and making it clear that she didn't want to talk.

Mr. S Shrugged, he'd figure out what teenage drama or petty squabble was causing this later.

"Well, how are your friends enjoying the party?" he looked to the three girls sitting beside her, who together formed a spectrum of emotion which he swore had to be planned.

"It was good. I mean, great! Mr. Schnee," a soft spoken and nervously chuckling girl said, adding a quick, "sir," after a short pause. He smiled at the girl as she tried turning her grey eyes away from his. The grey eyed girl was sitting furthest from Weiss, and next to her sat a busty blonde in a yellow dress who didn't bother hiding the glare she directed at him. Moving on quickly, he looked at the next person in line, who he guessed this was "Blake" considering her black dress and that she sat directly next to Weiss.

Blake's look was some combination of "Ahh!" and "I will rip your heart out and eat it!", all of this mixed with resting bitch face. Now, he wasn't one to meddle in a strangers dating life, but he wondered if Weiss had chosen the best people to call friends.

"And why are you asking?" Weiss said forcefully.

"I just wanted to know how your friends were doing," he replied, with probably the most honest thing he'd said since he woke up this morning.

Alas, Weiss, despite all her riches, was not buying it.

"Really? You want to know more about my friends, now?"

Weiss's voice echoed across the ballroom. Mr. S noticed the sudden quiet and turned to see the nervously smiling faces of the guests as most everyone seemed to be occupied with sipping their empty cups while staring discreetly at the scene. Weiss herself noticed the now silent room, the buzzing drone of the cameras now audible as she worked up the courage to take the next step.

"Well fine-" she said, standing up "-I'll tell you about them!"

"Ruby!" she pointed at the grey eyed girl with black hair, "is the most talented huntress I've ever met, whose leadership helped save many lives at Beacon." Weiss proclaimed with a not-too-subtle jab at the Atlas nobility's unpopular decision to hold back dust sales to a besieged Beacon when the white fang attacked. They reversed this decision of course, but it was still a sore point for many heads at the table.

"Ruby," as he now knew her to be called, waved at him with a nervous smile as Weiss lauded her achievements.

Mr. S wanted to give Ruby his congratulations on helping to win their D&D campaign, but Weiss was not done.

"Yang!" she pointed now to the scowling blonde.

'Oh, she's doing all of them,' Mr. S thought, looking at the scene with a neutral expression.

"Who is the most KIND HEARTED and BRAVE person I know!" Weiss said, putting particular emphasis on "KIND HEARTED" and "BRAVE" as another kick in the gut to the Atlas nobles who wanted to stay out of the fight for beacon. The same atlas Nobles who nearly let the white fang destroy one of the CCT towers.

Many guests in the ballroom were heavily gulping down wine from their flasks, Schwarz was considering downing a bottle.

'The yellow haired one looks like she'd main an orc,' Mr. S, thought, now understanding why Weiss had to be invited to this party. 'No matter, she can't make anymore of a scene,' Mr. S thought, wondering what kind words Weiss would have for Blake.

"And Blake!," Weiss's voice rang out like a crystal through the now stone silent Ball room. Her eyes glancing lovingly down towards Blake for a split second before she braced herself and let Blake grip her hand.

"My girlfriend!" she announced, helping Blake up from her chair with a tug of her arm, removing her bow with a flick of the wrist before bending Blake backwards and kissing her deeply in front of the watching crowd.

Yang smiled deliciously, barely managing to keep her promise not to make any more of a scene.

Ruby clapped lightly in the corner with a nervous smirk, "Yay! they're girlfriends!" she whispered.

If possible, the silence in the room got colder, followed by a loud, unanimous, gasp which spread out in a wave before falling silent; the acts of yelling, crying ladies, and loud phone calls only held back by the common courtesy everyone showed in allowing Mr. Schnee to be the first among them to do those things.

All eyes were on him, as some brows sweated and some, like the lady in red, smiled with a devilish smirk at the shitshow that would surely follow.

Now, if you, dear reader, expected Mr. S to be so completely ignorant of Faunus kind that he would make the wrong move at this turn, you'd be wrong. No, for Mr. S had learned about Faunus just prior to his party.

Well...he hadn't LEARNED about them...or read anything about them...or even heard the word "faunus" before in his life...Ok, he'd seen a picture of some people with animal ears on the cover of a magazine in one of the waiting rooms: A crime-watch magazine. But! He had managed to deduce much from a simple picture.

For example, it was obvious that gene therapy had advanced to the point where people could selectively add animal characteristics to their biology.

From this, he gathered three more important pieces of information.

First. Obviously, only rich people would have access to this technology at first, a hypothesis somewhat confirmed by his daughter dating someone with said augmentations. So make sure to treat people with animal characteristics accordingly.

Second. People in specialized industries would probably get them if their work could be improved by it, which is why those prison guards on the magazine cover had extra ears, to help keep a lookout.

And third, and most importantly, don't make a scene if you see people with animal ears; you'll make a fool of yourself otherwise.

So of course, Mr. S was now extremely glad that he'd seen that magazine. Otherwise, he might have freaked out at the sight of Blake's ears. PHEW! Of course, it was apparently a big deal that his daughter had made a scene and kissed someone, so he'd better say something to ease the tension. All of this flashed through his adrenaline addled mind in a quick second.

Looking smoothly over to the anticipating rows of diners in front, and his daughter and her friends to the side, he cleared his throat.

"You know, Weiss," he said. "I didn't know much about Blake when you first introduced her, but I can see now why you chose to date her."

Weiss rolled her eyes, 'Of course he's going to mention he didn't "know about" Blake. Trying to distance himself from this "Travesty"' she thought hotly.

Weiss didn't bother to hide her disgust at the coming speech about her "rebelliousness," the "bad influences at Beacon" and her "traumatized little soul after surviving through the attack by the White Fang."

Despite all of this, however. Weiss responded.

"And why do you think I chose to date her, father?" Weiss said, with a tone as sweet as ever.

"Why, because she's obviously an excellent listener!" he said loudly, making sure everyone in the room heard the clever joke he'd just come up with.

'Yeah, I'm awesome,' he thought, chuckling at his own joke.

'It works on so many levels!' he thought to himself, glad that he was able to come up with something under pressure like that as he stuffed down a hearty spoonful of the, quite delicious, Risotto, still chuckling. Yeah, he deserved this. Slowly, he got less and less glad as his own laughter echoed back towards him.

No one else was laughing. Like, not even a little. Not even those fake laughs people give when rich people tell bad jokes, or even those half-heated pity-laughs people give when _poor people_ tell bad jokes! He looked over from Weiss to the horrified faces that stood out on every person he saw, except for the red-lipstick lady, who's smile stood out like Christmas was coming early.

He looked back towards Weiss, who looked like her eyes were going to fall out of her head as her expression switched between wrathful, shocked and exasperation.

Thankfully, he didn't have to think of anything else to say. The rest of the ball did that for him.

"What the fuc-" a man near the middle of the table yelled, standing up. The rest of that sentence wasn't heard, drowned out in the wave of shouts that arose from every table and corner of the room.

While the panic spread, the cameras still circled slowly above, capturing the scene in all its HD glory.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

"Sir," Schwarz whispered, lightly placing her hand atop Mr. S's arm, "we should go." Hooking her arm through his she pulled him from his seat; meanwhile, raucous chattering filled the ball room. Excited onlookers cried out in the frenzied excitement of the moment as a sort of spontaneous dialogue seemed to have formed in every corner of the room, every guest strongly agreeing that this was not good and each person tripping over themselves to denounce the situation more sternly than the last. Some of the ladies lightly dabbed at the mascara ridden tears that streamed down their cheeks, many of the younger attendants stood precariously on their chairs to videotape the scene with their scroll cameras.

Interestingly, nobody bothered to directly address, or even interact with, "Mr. Schnee" during all of this, allowing Schwarz a relatively quiet moment to guide him to the nearest exit: a secret door, hidden behind one of the tapestries that hung against the North Wall. Weiss, having recovered before the rest of team RWBY, quickly located the pair, managed to yell out an impassioned, "Wait!" just as the heavy marble door shut neatly behind the retreating pair, resting flush against the wall once more as the tapestry swung smoothly back to cover it.

* * *

Schwarz's dress heels clicked sharply across the marble floor, resonating within the small tunnel they traveled through while Mr. S, following behind her, wondered if he should say something to break the silence. Shivering with aftershocks at the memory of what was literally his first informal conversation of the night, he decided against it.

Eventually, they came upon a small, circular room with four mechanical doors lining the walls; a fifth door shut cleanly behind them as they entered the circle. And, for just a moment, as they both stood in the quiet and otherwise empty room, well...honestly, he thought she was here to kill him. His blood pressure spiked as Schwarz turned suddenly.

"Where should we go, sir?" she asked with a straight voice, staring intently down at the scale-model hologram of a building that floated above her tablet. A fiery, red web of secret pathways snaked their way throughout the projected building's interior while a blue, flashing light indicated their position within those very tunnels.

"Take me to my office," he replied monotonously, managing to force a semblance of alertness and strength into his voice. At his word, Schwarz swiped at her tablet, the rightmost door whirred with a mechanical hum and the metal moved to reveal another small tunnel.

They once again headed into the maze of pathways, occasionally coming across forks in the path and winding around strongly curved and inclining walkways. During all of this, Mr. S felt keenly the unsaid questions hanging uncomfortably in the air while Schwarz worked her hardest to pretend the answers to those questions didn't matter: questions that Mr. S couldn't even identify.

'Alright, this is too much,' Mr. S decided, eagerly pulling his scroll from his pocket and searching for "History of The World." It wasn't much to go on, but it was all he could think to search for at the moment. His eyes desperately scanned over the first link, reading in a flurry...

_**Remnant is a rocky planet with one natural satellite. Home to two races, Humanity and the Faunus, the history of Remnant is...** _

'Motherfucker!' he worked to keep himself from yelling as he scrolled down, only to see more links for this "Remnant" world building crap. 'Seriously, how much was this guy into this fantasy book if it affected his recommendations this much!'

Frantically, he started typing away for a more specific query when a news story popped up, partially blocking the screen.

_**Former Schnee heiress makes surprise speech at ball!**_ the headline read, continuing on to say, **"You won't believe what happened next!"**

A grainy picture of the dining table he'd just been sitting at appeared below the title, showing Weiss standing at her seat and looking down at Mr. S. Multiple red arrows decorated the photo, pointing to a spot on Ms. Messerschmitt's cleavage, which itself was highlighted by a red circle. He scowled at the image, clicking it away as he worked to type in a new search once more.

"Sir, we're here," Schwarz interrupted.

Mr. S looked up to see Schwarz standing patiently by a heavy, metal door, surprised to be standing in the open hallway. He followed her light glance towards the small fixture embedded into the wall beside the door.

'Oh, she wants me to unlock it,' Mr. S realized as he strode confidently towards the fixture.

'Ok,' he thought on his way to the door, 'If "PASSWORD" doesn't unlock the door I'm going to pretend to pass out until I can figure out what-OH THANK GOODNESS IT'S A FINGERPRINT SCANNER!'

Mr. S exhaled in relief as he approached the door. A loud and deep CLICK snapped from inside the metal door almost immediately after he pressed his thumb onto the thumb pad. The door clicked a second time, more softly, before parting in the middle into two parts, each half swinging smoothly inwards to reveal his office.

If he'd been in the mood, he would have run inside and jumped into the cushioned swivel chair before spinning about to take in the aesthetic beauty of the room while softly saying "whoaaaa…" with each revolution. The floor of the room was covered completely in custom fitting, snow white, tiles that lined the room from wall to wall. The walls themselves were amazingly designed. The front wall was a solid block of metal, the same type as the doors'. The two side walls were covered in a lightly toned, hard carpet of some sort that brought a lot of balance to the stark contrast created by the white floor and dark, mahogany desk which sat near the back edge of the room. And finally, behind the desk itself, there was the main attraction: a wall made entirely of glass. He experienced a bit of vertigo as he looked through that wall and saw the skeleton crew working, their colored uniforms contrasting nicely with the white factory floor below. On the opposite wall of the warehouse was what could have been the largest television he'd ever seen. The screen itself was larger than his entire office, and on it was displayed the stock information for Schnee Corp, or rather, SCHN. A bright, green line ran along the surface of the screen, fluctuating up and down on a black graph as other companies and numbers flashed onto the lower bar of the screen, feeding real time stock price information straight through the glass wall. The green glow of the graph was just powerful enough to stretch into his office, coloring the snow white tiles a decorative teal.

He wasn't paying attention to any of this as he walked in, however, more intrigued by the crowd of people who mulled about on the inside, apparently ready to greet him. Schwarz followed hesitantly behind him as she looked more obviously at the two groups which stood on either side of the room, forming a path for Mr. S to reach his desk as they all stared at him, with expressions ranging from curiosity to incredulity to rage.

He looked straight ahead as he walked forward, keeping his eyes on the desk as indistinct features passed by on either side of his periphery. Each step he took seemed to echo in the crowded room, his every movement risking a casual brush against either of the two lines they had formed against the carpeted walls. He released a soft breath he'd been hiding as he curved around to stand in the clear space behind his desk. Reaching forward, he pulled back the chair behind his desk and lowered himself into it, trying his hardest to look regal as he did so.

As he sat in his chair, his desk surprised him by humming on and powering up all the electronics and computers that sat upon the mahogany.

"Good. Morning. Mr. Schnee," a staccato, computerized voice sounded from the telephone which sat on the nearest corner of the desk. "You. Have. Nine...Thousand. Four. Hundred. And. One. Messages," the computer finished just before a loud, cacophonous ringing overtook the machine.

The ringing stopped after several seconds. "You. Have. Nine. Thousand. Five. Hundre-"

CLICK. The sound flashed throughout the room as Schwarz's hand pressed harshly into the largest button on the machine, though Mr. S noted that a small light still flashed on the grey surface of the device, indicating that the stream of calls continued. He looked up, seeing the contained grimace Schwarz directed at the machine, before focusing his attention to the people in front of him. Careful not to ask suspicious questions like, "who are you people?" he elected to take a more subtle route. The first thing would be to find out whether "he" was supposed to know these people. His only guess was that he knew at least some of them quite well, and must be quite friendly with at least one of them if they had the key to his office, so a more casual approach might be appropriate for the situation, he gathered. He felt a cold chill fall over him as he thought of what to say, unable to come up with any excuses or apologies about whatever it was he did.

"Professor Ozpin, what are you doing here?" Schwarz asked with a mixture of relief and worry as she directed a familiar smile towards the man with the cane. Mr. S thanked his lucky stars at this and elected to stay silent for as long as he could manage.

"I was just dropping by to say hello," the man he now knew to be Ozpin replied with a genial smile, breaking the silence as he took a sip of, he guessed coffee, from a mug he'd been holding up ever since Mr. S walked in. "We didn't get to talk much during the party," Ozpin continued, directing the statement at Mr. S.

"I don't think you're the only one who wants a talk with our dear Mr. Schnee," a slightly tipsy man with raven hair chuckled. The man gestured with his flask hand to a television embedded into one of the side walls.

"Why, because she's obviously an excellent listener!" the statement blared from the tv's speakers as an aerial shot of the ball focused on Mr. S: a small figure in a white tuxedo sitting at the far edge of the largest table. Despite his small presence on the screen, however, his words tore through the surrounding silence of the ball room and seemed to pass directly through the tv and into his office to haunt him once more.

"Now, as you can see quite clearly, his voice is clear and unstrained, and there is no hint of discomfiture from Mr. Schnee as he speaks, nor is there any indication that he meant to be deceptive. In fact, if you will pay attention to his chuckle there at the end, I can see no intent to follow up his joke with anything substantive," a man wearing a brown suit explained while the news station replayed the statement, along with the subsequent chuckle, in slow motion on the left half of the television screen.

"So would you say that Mr. Schnee seemed tolerable of, even friendly with, the faunus that kissed his daughter?" the reporter sitting next to the man asked, hooking her hands together on her lap as she leaned forward on her stool.

"Yes, uh, I would characterize his behavior as friendly," the man answered with a curt nod.

"Well thank you, doctor Braun," the reporter said with a respectful nod before turning back to face the camera with a serious expression. "We will now talk LIVE with our body language analyst on the scene who-"

A light blue, circular light appeared on the lower corner of the tv as the sound muted. Turning his head, Mr. S looked up to see Schwarz standing beside him with her arm outstretched towards the screen, a remote grasped firmly in her hand. Mr. S wondered if he ought to give her a raise sometime.

"Now why'd you have to," the raven haired man took a long swig, "go on and do that. We were just getting to the fun part," he finished with a devilish smirk.

"Actually," a cold voice interrupted Schwarz's heated reply. Weiss stepped forward from the line she and her friends formed against the left wall, "I actually...agree with Qrow," she said as if swallowing something distasteful. "You have a lot of questions to answer," Weiss continued, her voice losing its initially wavering nature to take on a braver tone.

As she said this, the rest of the group trained their gazes on Mr. S, who sat still in his chair, thinking over the situation.

So he was sitting in a room with seven people. His daughter and her friends, along with Ozpin, were the people he "knew" apparently. That left two people unaccounted for.

Standing next to Ozpin, against the right wall, wearing a white and purple dress, was a displeased librarian with a riding crop. No. Really. She just carried that thing around and no one batted an eye, not even when she was wandering around the party...Moving on, Mr. S. decided to ignore her attire as he went to analyze the other unknown. Next to her, leaning on the wall in a roguish manner, was a man who apparently just did not give a fuck about dress code. He was wearing a cape for god's sake! And even while wearing that outfit he managed to make it look like he was too drunk to dress himself. Now, Mr. S wasn't usually one to pay too much attention to appearances in the first place, but the man seemed to have a talent for annoying people. His look, his hair, they way he talked, and his nonchalant attitude in the face of this disaster…whatever it was.

Man, he thought he was just soooo cool. Well, he wasn't.

Mr. S exhaled lightly as he looked back at his "daughter", who now stood defiantly in front of his desk.

"Now what could I possibly have to answer for?" he asked with an ironical smirk that implied he knew what the hell was going on.

"Buh, ghhh," Weiss floundered at Mr. S's playing dumb act. "Everything!" she finally settled at with a breathless, exasperated shout, "you have everything to answer for! What kind of act ar-"

"Excuse me," Schwarz interrupted strongly. "While Mr. Schnee appreciates your...excitement...to meet with him, you are still trespassing," she noted to a now surprised Mr. S., "please leave and we'll be sure to schedule appointments for all of you," she finished, in a tone which made clear that they wouldn't be getting any appointments. While she said this, her hand hovered dangerously over the visible emergency button.

"You're excused," Weiss responded, calmly fixing her dress, "and we're not leaving."

"Actually," Schwarz said in the closest thing to a sneer Mr.S had heard from her, "you wi-"

"Schwarz," Mr. S interrupted, drawing Schwarz's attention to him while he looked out to the group ahead, "why don't you get our guests some chairs."

"What?" Weiss asked indignantly.

"Of course, sir," Schwarz looked down at him, smiling while her hand hovered over the hidden emergency call button.

"No..I mean, actually get them some chairs," he clarified, drawing a confused look from Schwarz as she fought an internal battle between her trust in him and her duty

"What?" Schwarz summarized her feelings, immediately recoiling at the apparent impudence in her voice.

"Of course," Weiss chimed in, crossing her arms haughtily.

Schwarz turned her head to face Weiss with a glare, "I don't know what on Remnant-"

Mr, S didn't hear the rest of Schwarz's admonitions; for just as he heard the word "Remnant" leave her lips, he'd leaned back in his chair _just_ enough to see the REAL centerpiece of the room. Above his head, expertly painted onto the ceiling of his office, was a giant map of…

" **REMNANT** ".

Dark, bold letters spelled out the name of the world in stylized lettering, with each of the nations " **Atlas,** " " **Minstral,** " **Vacuo,** " and " **Vale** " being similarly labeled.

A series of epiphanies slammed into his mind as he gazed up at the world in a contemplative silence.

'They're basically just modified Atlas thrusters.' Jon's words rung clearly in his head.

'oh' Mr. S thought

'Remnant is a rocky planet with one natural satellite,' the words from the web entry flashed in his mind.

'Oh' he continued.

'...home to two races, Humanity and the Faunus…'

'OH' his mind began to burn with implications.

'...seemed friendly with the Faunus that kissed his daughter?'

'OH!'

'Because she's obviously such an excellent listener!' his own actions flashed painfully in his memory for no particular reason.

'D'OH!'

Quickly recovering, however, the final piece of the puzzle slid into place.

...Analysis of Dust Vein Decomposition Patterns In Fucking Remnant…

'OH SH-'

"Mr. Schnee," Schwarz interrupted his inner monologue, bringing his focus down from the ceiling. "Are you sure you'd like to speak with these people now?" Schwarz continued, putting emphasis on "now".

"Yes," he replied, certainty supporting his voice. No matter what was happening in the news or the rumor mill, he NEEDED to find out what was going on. Now. Because he was far from Montana or Alaska, and he _definitely_ wasn't in Kansas.

"Ha!" Weiss said, snubbing her nose at Schwarz while the dark haired woman begrudgingly called for the chairs with raised hackles and a nervous posture.

"Just be-"

"While you're at it," Mr. S interrupted the dangerously toned statement that Schwarz directed towards Weiss, "would you mind going through my voicemails?"

Schwarz was a gem, and he appreciated her at the moment more than he'd appreciated anything in his life, but he could tell a frazzled person when he saw one. She was best off doing something other than talking to the people present.

"You want me to look through all the voicemails?" Schwarz asked incredulously.

"Of course not," Mr. S replied. "Just randomize the order and look through a few to get a feel for the environment."

"Randomising. Voicemails." The phone chimed, seemingly deciding Schwarz's next course of action.

Schwarz seemed to get the subtext of the statement and lowered her shoulders as she picked up the phone handle, pressed some buttons and pushed the phone to her ear as she read off of a transcript. Though, Mr. S noted, the task seemed to have a calming effect on the secretary, as a hint of a smile formed on her countenance at the first contact with the hard plastic of the phone.

Now, he needed to get some very key questions about this world answered...and he couldn't ask any of them. In fact, instead of asking questions, he would have to give detailed answers about the politics and behavior of Mr. Schnee while providing an adequate explanation for the apparent difference between his behavior and what Mr. Schnee's behavior would have been.

He was sure that was possible though…somehow.

Maybe if he answered in question form?

He wasn't a pessimist, but he was sure this would be the hardest game of Jeopardy ever.

Mr S. blinked as he looked over the expectant crowd. Everyone was silent, looks of confusion, anger and intense curiosity flooded the room as everyone trained an idle gaze on Mr. S. Even Qrow, looking unusually serious as he leaned back against a side wall, managed to show some reverence towards the situation, as if the mystery of the century was about to be solved in this very office. Mr. S looked back at them with a blank gaze, slowly regretting his rash decision to keep them here as they all waited for him to bust out a completely rational and sensical explanation for what was going on. Well, that wasn't happening. His mind was still burned out after accepting that the future reality was actually some alien world and thus he wasn't really in the best state to come up with anything convincing. Really, the only explanation he could think of was the truth, and it was just stupid.

Breathing in lightly, he prepared to grind out some half thought declaration when sweet respite came with Weiss as she cut through the awkward silence.

"Can we get on with this, father?" Weiss leaned forward to glare down at him.

The question buzzed past him, and he barely acknowledged the meaning of the statement before letting it slip from his mind. Really, he was thankful that someone else had taken the burden of starting the conversation, but Mr. S was still a bit distracted by the fact that this crazy body snatching adventure was actually on another planet! As such, at the moment, he was more concerned with the Fermi paradox and the logistics of interstellar travel then he was with the conversation before him.

"Get on with what?" he managed to reply with a straight voice and gentle smile, concealing his lack of fucks expertly.

"You!" Weiss pointed a finger at Mr. S while she slowly intoned each word, "answering our questions!" Weiss finished, feeling her pointing finger shake with a growing rage at having asked the same, impossibly interesting, question of her father.

"Well, what questions could you possibly want answered?" Mr. S replied, trying to put on an interested smile that came off as more smug than intended. 'Yeah, this probably isn't Proxima, what with the whole tidal locking. Maybe Alpha Centauri?'

Weiss shivered with a contained wrath at his apparent nonchalance. "Well," she began with an overly calm attitude as she felt herself being undone. Her expressions and movements become looser and more exaggerated as an impassioned fury expressed itself through her. "You could start by explaining your behavior back at the ball, old man!" At this point, Weiss was a raging ball of hot fury, barely holding herself back from yelling as she let it all out. Everything. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she noted that she'd never gotten this far before, having always been shut down, or slapped or threatened before she'd reached this point, but she was free now. She'd already been disowned and had nothing else to lose, nothing else he could take from her. Best of all, her father was stupid enough to let everyone stay, to let himself be cornered in public like this! Finally, after all these years, like a dream come true, she would be leaving this poisonous relationship, and she would be leaving with her head held high, her friends by her side, and most importantly...getting some answers!

So why was she so angry?

Weiss leaned intently forward as Mr. S moved to speak, hating that she was so captivated by his words and beginning to listen to that muted voice in the back of her head that told her to calm down as she felt Blake move to stand beside her, allowing her to relax just a bit.

"Well, whatever would I have to explain myself for?" Mr. S replied as if this conversation was the last thing on his mind.

"Why did you say that back at the ball!?" Weiss exploded once more, on the brink of shouting as Mr. S Idly considered paying more attention and care to his responses before resolving to muscle through this, he was bound to mess up, best not to overthink it.

"Because it was funny," Mr. S replied simply, with a forlorn smile.

"You. You. You. You." Weiss stuttered, rapidly blinking as she struggled to come up with words that could better express her fury.

"Well what was I supposed to say?" he replied defensively as he felt his mind begin to wake once more and notice the rest of the people in the room who watched, as Yang in particular looked ready for a fist fight and Ruby weakly hooked her arm through Yang's in a worried attempt to hold her back.

"You were supposed to say that you didn't approve of our relationship!" Weiss replied with the obvious answer, almost begging for the world to make sense again.

"Well, why wouldn't I approve of your relationship?" Mr. S asked.

"BECAUSE SHE'S A FAUNUS!" Weiss exploded, stretching her arms up as she stood on her tiptoes to point vigorously at Blake's cat-ears.

Blake blushed as she flattened her ears and looked bashfully at the floor, wondering, for a moment, if she should be offended at her girlfriend's words.

'No," Blake thought, 'she's not like that.'

Mr. S, meanwhile, was taken aback, visibly reacting to Weiss's words for the first time in the conversation as his eyes widened a hair and he moved to lean back against his office chair. There was a noticeable lull in the conversation as everyone seemed intrigued by "Mr. Schnee's" reaction, hooked onto his lips as they all eagerly awaited his next words. Weiss had said it straight, there was nowhere for him to deflect the conversation to now. Mr. S himself was shaken from his reverie as it all hit him like a train, bringing him fully back into the conversation, the here and now, as "Remnant" left his musings and yet another stream of epiphanies flooded into place. Despite this being the third time that night that he was having such an experience, the power of the moment was enough to overwhelm him once more, to wipe away his thoughts as a singular conclusion formed in his mind, and, like a deer staring into the headlights of truth, there was nothing he could do except to look back with wide eyes and reflect what shone onto him.

Mr. S paused for just an instant to consider his words, the whole room going still as even Qrow moved from his relaxed position against the wall to look fully upon the unfolding scene.

"You know," Mr. S paused with a slightly shocked tone, "Weiss," he brought his hands together, touching them to his lips as he looked down at his desk top in concern, "that's kind of racist."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

In a completely unexpected turn of events, Weiss freaked out.

"Mother fu-!" Weiss's yell was cut short as a monochrome blur fell over her form, the rest of the room relaxing as Weiss was held back from making a popular mistake.

Meanwhile, the first verse of the "Fresh Prince of Bel Air" theme song started playing in Mr. S's head.

Mr. S pressed back against his chair as Blake dragged away a struggling Weiss in a full nelson hold. Really, he didn't know what to be more surprised at, the reaction itself or that the heiress had the kung-fu moves to accompany it. Really, she had the foot work down and everything. The sudden and awkward silence that now weighed down on the room gave him some time to breath, though.

"Let go of me, Blake!" Weiss shouted for the third time as she struggled against the silent, though worried looking, faunus that held her.

Well, it was quiet if you ignored the violently angry heiress in the middle of the room, which everyone seemed to do in favor of giving Mr. S a dumbfounded look of...unbelief? Confusion? Drunkenness?

"Whasstha-" Qrow managed to slur as he leaned against a near wall for support, looking suspiciously into his flask as he confirmed that last hypothesis.

As for the rest of the group, Mr. S was sure that this was the first time those facial expressions had been expressed anywhere, ever. Even Yang paused, ignoring the fact that Ruby was no longer holding her back as they both looked at the surreal scene unfolding before them.

"Wha-What do you mean 'That's racist'!?" Weiss said, managing to make the air quotes on either side of her scowling face despite her Blake-encumbered form.

"Well, it just seemed like denying your dating someone on the basis of their race-" Mr. S began to explain as if he'd just been caught without his homework.

"Will you just stop with this crazy talk!?" Weiss interrupted, exploding once more and feeling Blake tighten her arms around her as she gesticulated forward at Mr. S.

"Well, it might be hard to face your own shortcomings, but acknowledging that you have such a mindset is the first step to fixing it, Weiss." Mr. S said with a genuinely worried tone, partially at the views Weiss seemed to hold and partially at the hope that he said her name right.

"Wh-Wha-Whaahat?" Weiss chuckled out, a mad smile forming on her countenance as she leaned forward in the grip that still held her, slack as she felt all strength leave her at the declaration. "You're calling _me_ racist?" Weiss said, weakly pointing towards herself as she struggled not to laugh.

"I'm not trying to shame you with the label," Mr. S said with an understanding tone, forgetting that he was talking to what was supposed to be his daughter. "But acknowledging the fact is the best way for us to move forward," he finished, crossing his arms over his lap as he locked gazes with Weiss.

"What are you talking about?" Weiss said with a befuddled expression, feeling more and more like she was the one who had no idea what was going on. How was he able to say such things with such confidence!? " _I'm_ not the racist! _You're_ the racist!" Weiss said simply, as if she had to work to keep the facts from changing.

"Am I, though?" Mr. S said in a curiously skeptical fashion.

"Yes!" Weiss yelled back, managing to pull away from Blake's grip and stumble forward several steps as Schwarz once again pulled away from the voice mails to watch Weiss carefully. "What could possibly have caused you to think any differently!?" Weiss asked, "I'm the one dating her!" she continued, gesturing back to a nervous looking Blake. "You're the one who was supposed to freak out here!" She finished, pointing back at Mr. S, using simple and concrete language as if anything else would cause the reality around her to be even more nonsensical than it was.

"So...you're only dating her to get back at me?" Mr. S, asked with a disappointed look in his eyes.

"What? No!" Weiss said defensively, quickly switching back to an unbalanced anger as she tried to take back control of the conversation. "Don't flatter yourself," she continued, calmer as as straightened out her skirt and stepped back into an artificially stiff posture, "I'm dating her because I like her. I just revealed that fact so you'd finally get off my back."

"So, you're only dating her to get me to leave you alone?" Mr. S asked with genuine curiosity, desperately trying to find out what was going on.

"No!" Weiss floundered, stretching her arms down either side of her body as her hands bent out at the wrist and balled themselves into fists.

"You shouldn't use your relationship as a means to an end, Weiss," Mr. S, said, feeling the need to keep talking and attempting to draw out some sage-like advice from his cluelessness.

"What are you doing?" Weiss almost fell to her knees. Her well trained sense of propriety recoiling at such a drastic loss of form. Her instincts for such things always seemed to fail when it came to talking with her father, never to this extent however.

"I'm just concerned about this unhealthy mindset you're carrying," Mr. S replied in as honest a statement as he could muster at the moment.

"You're the racist!" Weiss replied simply, looking slightly hopeless at the occasion.

"You know, it doesn't seem that way," Mr. S denied calmly, leaning back in his chair and trying to retain his cool as the heavy accusations and public argument wore away at him.

"Actually, you are," a new voice interrupted, drawing his attention to Blake as she stepped forward with a large posture and a cool glare; her ears were prominent for the first time, held fully high in the air. "I don't know what it is that you're trying to accomplish," Blake said with a husky, almost bored, tone that didn't fail to show her youth, "but Weiss is the most kindhearted and caring person I've ever met," she continued past the confused, and almost hurt, looks that Ruby sent her way, "and I won't stand here and let you accuse her of anything. If you want to find something to be concerned about, look at the hiring practices you've instituted that force even the most qualified faunus to struggle for respectable jobs. If you want something to fix, look at the faunus children that your foremen target, putting them to work in the harshest mines for the slightest scraps of food," Blake continued, her fists balling up in a cold rage. "If you really want to signal your moral worries, maybe you should start by giving _all_ of your workers access to clean drinking water?" Blake said, her voice shaking as her eyes shifted into vertical slits that focused on Mr. S's impassive expression, "just don't think that playing these games with us is doing anything worthwhile."

Schwarz moved forward in a defensive posture, hating how she couldn't call for security now until Mr. S ordered it. 'How long are we going to indulge this girl?' she thought.

'Oh,' Mr. S thought, fully appreciating now just how mind burning a crash course in a completely new world's history could be as the full implications of Blake's speech hit him. 'So, basically, I'm Hitler, and my son just kissed a gay jew...on live television.'

He sat back in his chair, absorbing the information as he glared out impassively at the silent crowd of people in his office, not bothering to come up with something to say. What could he say? 'Oh, wait. Now that I think about it, I don't approve of your relationship after all?' He mentally shook his head at his situation, pausing a long moment as he kept an inexpressive face, trying to center himself as Blake's declarations cascaded their way throughout his mind and his gut fell out from under him; the girl's speech affecting him more than he knew it logically should have as the suddenly personal nature of the evils he'd ignored on Earth buried themselves into his heart, hurting as if someone had spritzed acid into his blood.

"Blake, for her part, was valiantly trying not to break down. She didn't regret what she'd said, but the severe silence that now centered around her didn't do much to comfort the normally shy and bookish girl as she stood unsteadily, tunnel vision focused on the vicious glare Mr. Schnee sent her way, the world drowned out in the oppressively claustrophobic sounds of her heartbeat thundering in her ears. Would she be thrown out? A sinister voice sounded in her ever darkening thoughts. Jailed? Executed? She was in Atlas after all. Ever more horrifying scenarios fell upon her like an avalanche, paranoid thoughts running rampant as she tensed, her old survival instinct rising back up as her head twitched towards the door, she had to run, she couldn't let them know she was thinking of running. She-.

She breathed out in silent relief as Weiss's small, cold hand intertwined with her own, drawing her out of her thoughts as the world seemed to open back up and her heart slowed. 'No. Ozpin is here and Weiss herself said everything would be fine. We'll be fine,' she thought, hoping desperately that she wasn't fooling herself as Mr. Schnee moved to speak and another shard of fear tore through her heart. She gripped Weiss's hand painfully, as if anchoring herself still, and held her breath, awaiting her fate.

"Okay, fair enough. _I'm_ the bad guy," Mr. S admitted lightly, gesturing to himself with a tone somewhere in between seriousness and casual acceptance.

Weiss's patterned response fell dead before it left her lips, instead just giving a disappointed look with a touch of hopeless despair thrown in. Schwarz didn't look any better, looking down at Mr. S as if he'd just kicked a puppy.

A cold second passed, and then another, and another and another and another and another.

Looking around the room, It seemed as if everyone was just getting tired with Mr. S and his surprises at this point. The librarian lady was scowling, as always. The drunkard seemed to be in a transcendent state between passing out, making annoying quips and hangover. Team RWBY froze in a collective state of shock, Schwarz not doing much better and, through it all, Ozpin stood nonchalantly in his corner of the room, sipping from his mug and looking at Mr. S as if this were some big joke that they were all in on.

"Will you still be needing those chairs?" Mr. S asked, wondering if this meant they would all leave now as he attempted to break "awkward silence number thirteen" of the day.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Weiss asked.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

* * *

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Weiss asked.

Mr. S leaned back, sighing as he did so.

In times of great stress, Mr. S often found it helpful to revert back to his younger, more naive, though fundamentally wiser, self for guidance. Mentally, he traveled back in time to when summer was good, love was easy, and the world made sense; searching in those nostalgic, rose-colored times for a solution. Meditating on his youth for a moment, the answer quickly became clear to Mr. S, shocking him with it's simplicity: It was time to stop this farce, there would be no more half-truth's, no more sliding past the issue, no more glancing questions away; from now on, there would just be simple, straight up, lies. His game plan now was to see the world for what it was and proclaim it to be something else.

It was thus that Mr. S answered, "What are you talking about? I'm as alright as ever."

"I don't care about _you_ , I just want to know what you're trying to do!" Weiss yelled, supporting herself on the desk with her arms as she glared down at Mr. Schnee.

"I'm not sure what you mean…" Mr. S said with a cocked eyebrow as he circled one hand before him in a leading gesture, deciding it was best for the moment to say as little as he could get away with.

Weiss blinked rapidly, slowly leaning back away with stiff, robotic movements as she looked on in disbelief. The faux-enlightened act she could buy, even as just an act, but her father was nothing other than brutally direct. He HAD to give it up now that they'd all caught on...right? Eventually?

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Weiss repeated, deciding that no other statement would ever fit the situation better than that one.

"I'm not sure what you mean," Mr. S responded a tad more aggressively, his stoic mask giving way under the pressure as he grit his teeth and leaned forward in his chair for the first time. Really, if the universe was going to glitch out his metaphorical save file, plop him into future, space Hitler's body without so much as a 24 hour notice and then expect him to play along, then it had another thing coming. Fuck the rules, he was breaking decorum like he was Dolph Lundgren. "Really," he continued with a slight scowl and a more controlled tone, "I think you'd find my behavior more to your liking if a group of people _hadn't_ burst into my office uninvited."

"Nobody's bursting into your office!" Weiss shouted back just as the office doors burst inward, slamming against the walls with a heavy clang.

"Father, I heard the news," Winter strode into the office, easily navigating the crowded room despite her stiff posture and long strides, eventually coming to a stand before the desk while giving a curious, sideways glance at the harried looking Weiss.

"And it would also be great if people stopped interrup-"

"Nobody's interrupting you, either!" Weiss continued, fully in verbal combat mode.

"See. That jus-" Mr. S started.

"TSHHHH!" a blue hologram appeared before him, the static fading to reveal the hardened face of a tired looking man with a nice suit and a five o-clock shadow. "Mr. Schnee," the man greeted with a slight nod as he looked out with what seemed to be a permanent glare attached to his face.

Mr. S. barely kept himself from jumping back at the sight. Of course, he'd seen holograms numerous times since he arrived here, but all of them had been banners and signs and such, things you saw at a distance; somehow, that made it easier to cope with, if they were at a distance, you didn't _really_ have a visceral reaction to their existence; thus, he might be forgiven for looking surprised when holograms jumped into his face like he was their only hope.

Taking a moment to compose himself, he replied.

"Ah, General Ironwood, Winter," Mr. S said with a jovial tone, giving a polite nod to the respective figures, thanking god for name tags, and barely keeping himself from saying "Ms. Schnee," to what was apparently his daughter. "Any reason you're both visiting me?" Mr. S asked, taking note of their matching uniforms as he worked to keep his nerves from acting up as the room seemed to be filling up with imposing figures. He had to admit, though, their interruption was just what he needed, a nice respite of calm waters in a chaotic ocean of yelling teenage girls.

"I have to ask what you were thinking-! Really? This is unlike you-! The council has been hounding me for the past-! The board's extremely worried at the momen-!" They both sprung into their respective diatribes without warning, blasting Mr. S with enough bad news to fill a New York back alley.

Their overlapping complaints were silenced quickly as Mr. S raised a hand, leaning back in his chair as if absorbing the information. Really, though, it just felt nice to quiet people with a gesture. "Ok, one at a time," he said, taking a breath, " _what_ is going on?" he asked, directing the question to anyone and everyone as he worked to keep the defeated tone from his voice.

"Uh, sir?" Schwarz interjected, pulling the phone away from her head and placing it down. "I think I've looked at enough voicemails: people seem to be upset with you." She said.

"That's an understatement," Qrow's gravelly voice added from the sidelines.

Ok, the puzzle pieces were in place now, all the information needed to find out what the hell was going on. Sure, the pieces were vague, small and oftentimes incomplete, but he could sense that understanding was just a hair's breadth away.

Of course, he was still in a "fuck you, universe!" mood at the moment, and putting effort into _anything_ at the moment sounded about as fun as doing a million piece puzzle after flunking his SAT. So, as it turned out, he didn't do the puzzle work, instead cutting to the heart of the matter with a simple question.

"So...why is everyone so upset, exactly?" he asked, leaning an arm across his desk and tapping his fingers onto the wooden surface.

"Well...uh...What?" Winter asked, leaning forward slightly as she stumbled over her words.

"Get used to it." Weiss deadpanned.

* * *

"So...to clarify. _You're_ mad at me because I don't like faunus." He said, slowly waving his arm to gesture at the wall team RWBY lined up against.

"Yes," the droning chorus came from the sisters of the team as Weiss and Blake elected to stay silent and stare at opposite walls.

"And _everyone else_ is mad at me because Weiss kissed Blake and I was ok with it." Mr. S continued at a slower pace, turning his chair to face Winter and the Hologram of General Ironwood.

"Most everyone of relevance to the issue, yes," Winter answered back with a curt nod, ignoring the glares and pleading looks that Blake and Weiss sent her way. Ironwood leaned over his desk, rubbing his temples as the hologram looked straight down at the mahogany table top.

"So, therefore-"

"Yes! Yes! The answer is yes!" Weiss interrupted with a yell. "Now can you _please_ just call my relationship a disgrace on live television so we can all get out of here?" she said with a strained voice.

Mr. S, despite the evening he was having, was still awestruck by the surreal nature of that statement as he got kicked back to stage two of grief. Was any of this real? Was this one of those science experiments where they test to see if you'd kill someone because some guy in a lab coat told you to? Still riding the trailing edge of his indignation, Mr. S closed his eyes with a sigh as he tilted his neck down and shook his head.

"I can't believe this," he said with an amazed tone. Really? He gets launched across the very fabric of space and time into a futuristic, alien planet just so he could say racist things on tv? Of all the alternate realities to end up in, he gets sent to the Starfleet Confederacy?

Opening his eyes, he glared out into the room as he made a decision.

"No," he said with a tone of conviction.

"What do you mean 'no'" Weiss said with a strained voice.

"No," Mr. S responded evenly once more, drawing all the strength that he could from all those D.A.R.E ads embedded into his memory.

"Just call the news and tell them you don't approve!" Weiss said, growing desperate.

"No." Mr. S repeated.

"Really? You hate me that much?" Weiss seethed, "you'd be willing to risk all of this just to keep me trapped here?" she said, raising her arms up to gesture at the general surroundings, "just to keep me tied to the bame you've worked so hard to ruin?"

"And what would I be risking, exactly?" Mr. S responded in a tone that he hoped came off as sarcastic.

"Actually, father. If I may interject," Winter interrupted, "you should consider the _severely negative_ impact this could have on the company," she said keeping her voice even.

'Ahh, shit. I've still gotta stay in character,' Mr. S thought as he remembered that he still had a part to play, even if he didn't know what that part was supposed to be…

"Well, obviously, I won't be risking much," Mr. S replied, fully committed to listening to his elementary school self's wisdom.

"What do you mean?" Weiss asked, hunched over with a sneer.

"Huhhhhhhhhhhhhh." Mr S sighed a deep and solemn sigh, making very clear the depths of his disappointment at being surrounded by feeble-minded plebs who couldn't see the obvious. Drawing his sigh out for as long as he could, he frantically thought of reasons why he was right.

'Come on, come on, brain give me something...Fuck, fuck, fuck, what was I thinking! I don't know shit! I'm such an idiot, acting like I knew what I was talking about. Fuck, how am I supposed to come up with anything when the only thing I know is that this place sells dust. And I don't even know what that i- actually, wait a minute…' he thought, almost smiling giddily as a desperate gamble appeared before him.

"What?" Weiss asked impatiently.

"Schwarz, how are stocks?" He asked with an overconfident tone, not bothering to face his secretary as he spoke.

Schwarz turned to look out the glass wall, glancing at the giant screen on the factory wall, taking in the green line as it snaked its way along a graph, before looking back at Mr. S. "Uhh...they're stable, sir."

"See?" He said as if that proved everything. "We sell _dust_ people," he continued as if he knew exactly what that entailed besides a vague Saudi Arabia corollary he'd made in his mind. "We could start funding terrorist groups and even then I'm sure people would hesitate to go green," he said, accidentally referencing the Schnee corp. competitor, Green co., a dust distributing company that Mr. Schnee had been instrumental in counter programming to near oblivion.

"So stop being monday night-" Mr. S paused.

'Wait,' Mr. S thought. 'I can't say "Monday night quarterback," they might not play football here!' he thought as he felt his plan slip out from underneath him.

"Uh…" Mr. S snapped his fingers in consternation. "Uh, Schwarz, what's that saying with the sports and the hindsight," he asked, hoping to seem confused enough that nobody here would ask what "Monday" was.

"Being a Monday night team captain, sir," Schwarz answered nonchalantly.

"Yeah, that," Mr. S answered, wondering if they had Garfield comic strips too.

Thankfully for Mr. S, this was one of those moments where being an alien visitor could be confused for being an out of touch rich person, as noted by the several face palms that went through the room.

"Wait, you don't understand," Ironwood said, rising from his chair as the hologram rose up to look Mr. S in the face.

"What?" Mr. S asked, his heart beating into his esophagus as he hoped he didn't fuck up his reasoning too badly.

For those of you that are getting hopeful thoughts, let us all acknowledge that Mr. S's characterization of the situation, as him being Hitler and his son kissing a gay jew, is a bit off. It would be more appropriate to describe the situation as him being Hitler, and his son kissing a gay jew who happened to be Trotsky.

"Blake is-" Ironwood began.

"Breaking news!" a blaring television interrupted, turning all heads to the first wall television as Qrow stood fiddling with its controls, himself staring up at the menacing portrait of Blake that appeared on the tv screen. "We are just getting this," the reported announced, almost falling off of her desk with giddy excitement as she pressed a finger tightly against her earpiece. "BLAKE BELLADONNA had been CONFIRMED to be a former, and possibly current, member of the WHITE FANG TERRORIST ORGANIZATION," she said, almost pounding the desk as her sweat glistened in the camera lights. "So far, Mr. Schnee has declined to respond to any queries about the matter-" she continued as Schwarz took on a guilty look and an areal shot of Schnee manor appeared in the corner of the screen.

"Follow channel 2 faction news-" the reporter began to say before her voice, along with the approaching noise of helicopter rotors, was quickly downed out by a beating cacophony that came from every side of the office. The dancing jig of panic, heard even through the ceiling, filled the room as Mr. S sat frozen in his chair, trying not to be the first one to move in a room filled with shocked faces.

Faintly, just faintly, the chaotic, disjointed song of "SELL! SELL! SELL!" could be heard through the office walls, just in time for the green-tinted, snow-white tiles of the room to turn a magenta red as Mr. S guessed what that entailed for the TV Screen behind him.

Turning his chair around just as everyone recovered enough of their senses to follow his gaze, Mr. S. looked on as the large screen presented a precipitously falling red line on an expanding graph, quickly showing the company's stocks plummeting through the floor in time with an irresistible force that Mr. S felt himself pressing him back into his chair, never having fully appreciated before how solid stocks could feel when they sucker punched you in the gut.

The room fell maddeningly silent as the tv fell into the background and the panicking investors in the surrounding rooms added pressure and confusion with their overlapping voices. The night crew in factory room below didn't seem to be doing much better, crowding around the tv screen as they stared up at the numbers in horror.

"Now, that _might_ be a problem," Mr. S admitted, fully smacked out of his "angry at the universe" phase by the Scrooge McDuck levels of money that was apparently going down the drain.

"MIGHT!?" Weiss responded with a shrill, growling voice.

"MIGHT!?" she said again, moving to stand before the glass wall before gesturing at the falling stock prices. "How could this be anything other than a complete nightmare?" Weiss asked, her form tinted a hellish red by the light, fitting well with the "avatar of rage" look she seemed to be rocking.

"Well, I would like to note that all is not as it seems with that graph," Mr. S answered while a sensible part of him, buried deep inside his psyche, screamed at him to shut up.

"What could possibly be misleading about this!? The Line. Is Going. Down." Weiss enunciated.

"Well...the y axis doesn't start at zero, for one," Mr. S answered softly.

It was an instant after this utterance that Mr. S realized. Elementary-schoolers are idiots.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

* * *

BRBEEP! BEERP! BEEPEREP! A muffled cacophony of phone calls rang through the hologram as the figure of Ironwood turned off to the side to observe source of the sound in a resigned fashion, soon moving back to face Mr. S with a look of...almost annoyance…

"Huh," he sighed, "I've got to go; the heads are looking for someone to blame," he said, focusing a serious look on Mr. S. "Take care of things on your end, I'll talk with you at our next meeting," he finished with a short nod before the hologram cut out and a blast of wind rushed past Mr. S.

Mr. S's eyes widened in surprise, the tips of his mustache drifting lightly in the current as Schwarz appeared suddenly before his desk. Shifting his head up from where he'd been looking at the holo-projector, he caught Schwarz taking a defensive stance before him. Blake, who, for the most part, looked as if all the blood had been drained out of her, hardly mustered any reaction to the secretary as Yang and Ruby quickly moved to flank either side of the catatonic faunus, forming a defensive barrier between her and Schwarz.

Weiss watched on worriedly before rushing forward and skidding to a stop inches from the right side of the desk.

"Well?" Weiss asked, almost breathless with anticipation and a well hidden sense of anxiety as she tried to occupy Mr. Schnee with the falling stock prices, hoping for the first time that he'd keep his sudden turn of opinion and not call security, or worse.

"Sir, I _highly_ recommend we call security," Schwarz suggested with a steady, though strained, tone as she stood steadfastly, glaring at Blake. Weiss, meanwhile, mentally applied some choice words to the secretary.

"Eh, yeah, just calm down there for a second, Schwarz," Mr. S replied in a casual, half distracted, manner as he nervously eyed the falling stock numbers, putting forward as much concern as he could muster about the Blake situation. Noticing the panicked expression that Schwarz directed towards him, he quickly threw back a look of 'geez, calm down, my company's dying here!' as he made a mental note to talk to Schwarz about her priorities. I mean, terrorist or no, they were dealing with a teenage girl here, she wasn't hurting him period, especially when considering that they were in a room filled with eight other people, at least one of whom didn't want him dead.

Dismissing her concerns, Mr. S quickly turned his attention back to the stock screen, watching the red line continue to fall as he experienced his stomach turning with every dip and rise of the graph, once again pressing back into his chair as if the graph were a crashing plane that he'd been strapped to. He stared, entranced, as every sudden, upward jerk of the numbers shot a beacon of hope into his heart that the trend might start reversi- Beep Beep Beep!

He was drawn back into the present as he found himself in a loud room filled with quiet people, the clamor of the "investors next door" playing through the walls like they were surround-sound speakers as another phone went off.

Beep Beep Beep! There was that noise again.

The sound rung out once more as Mr. S looked about in confusion before whipping his head toward Schwarz.

"I thought you turned the phone off?" He asked.

"I think that's you, sir," Schwarz responded without looking away from her target, prompting Mr. S to quickly pull the glowing scroll from his pocket.

Looking confusedly at the opaque screen for a moment, he swiped his thumb over the fingerprint scanner, clearing away the frosted glass effect and revealing the mystery caller.

'Huh, so I do know her…' he thought, tilting his head at the confidently smirking, cherry red lips of the alluring woman on the screen. Strangely enough, no name showed up anywhere with the profile photo of the blonde.

Shifting the phone in his hand, Mr. S pressed what looked like the "pick up call" button but was actually the "speaker" button.

"HAHAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" the voice on the other side rang out, one lightening-and-thunder sound effect away from impersonating Maleficent. "I didn't think I'd be seeing the fall of 'the great Mr. Schnee' so soon, _fool_ ," the harsh voice announced through the now relatively quiet room. "And oh, what a wondrous fall it was," she continued in a giddy tone of voice. "You have no idea-"

'I think she's been saving this up," Mr. S thought with a curious expression before a sudden change of tone brought his attention back to the monologue.

"-AHAHAHA, you should just retire now! And I hope you won't be brave enough to show up at this months STOCK meeting...because you're a laughing STOCK! HAHAHAHAHA! And I'll be sure to be laughing with the rest of them!" she said, pausing a moment to catch her breath and savor the moment. "But really, truly," she said, putting a brief stall to her tone, "I hope you see now how little respect you had without your wife's name, Jaquez." she finished with a sneer, taking back control of her frenzied sentence.

"I'm sorry? Who is this?" Mr. S asked.

"AGHHH!" she sneered out before the line cut off abruptly.

"Hehehe!" Mr. S chuckled lightly, shaking his head in amusement at the now blank phone screen.

"What are you laughing at!" Weiss interrupted, slamming her palms down on the edge of his desk. "The company's dying!" she announced with a panicked look; Winter looked on from behind with a curious expression.

"Since when do you care, anyway?" Mr. S asked defensively, "You're the one that caused this in the first place!"

"I don't hate the company, I just hate _you_!" Weiss responded yet more aggressively, and Mr. S felt like he'd just stuck his face behind a jet engine.

'Ouch.' Mr. S, thought.

"Ok, so we're all being very candid today," Mr. S responded calmly, raising his palms up in a calming gesture. "So, candidly, let me ask, of all the faunus in the world," he circled his hands, "you couldn't have chosen one that _wasn't_ , and, I repeat, _wasn't_ a terrorist?"

'Ooooh, burn!'

"She's not a terrorist!" a chorus of voices responded from all non-Blake members of team RWBY.

"Right, right, she's a 'freedom fighter'," Mr. S replied, making air quotes.

"No, the news is lying!" Weiss responded. "She's actually not a terrorist," she clarified further, folding one arm across her chest as a hand rose to rub at her temples, hoping that he'd forget about the dressing down Blake had given him just moments before becoming very arrest-able.

"Wait, really?" Mr. S asked, swiveling his chair around to face Weiss at that declaration.

"Wait," Weiss drew back, folding her arms in on herself as she looked blankly down at Mr. S along with the rest of the room. "Wait, what?" Weiss asked, making sure that she was hearing that hopeful tone in his voice right.

"I'm asking if you're really not affiliated with the White Fang," Mr. S said, swiveling once more to address Blake through the crowd of people standing between the two of them. "I'd really like to clear this up with the press."

"Uh...well," Blake struggled, desperately wanting to say "yes" but somehow unable to spit out what would be a technically false answer."It's...complicated?" she finally said.

"Sir, I'm calling security," Schwarz said, grabbing the phone.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

* * *

"Now hold on, Schwarz. Let's hear her out," Mr. S proclaimed, speaking in a gentle, understanding, and genuinely hopeful tone of voice that everyone elected to ignore for the sake of their sanity.

"Sir, as the head of your security, I can't allow you to sit here with an admitted terrorist!" Schwarz explained, turning slightly to face Mr. S while making sure to keep Blake in her periphery.

"Don't get too excited now, Schwarz," Mr. S beckoned. "At worst, she's a former member; besides, I doubt Weiss is the kind to knowingly date a murderer," he said, guessing.

"I highly doubt the risk is worth whatever information she can offer," Schwarz retorted, managing to keep her tone professional.

"Trust me, I know what I'm doing," he said, lying.

"Even so, can this discussion not be held off until _proper_ security measures are in place?" Schwarz said with a pleading tone.

"That's not feasible given the current situation," Mr. S said, gesturing to the red screen behind him and slipping comfortably into that alien vernacular which seemed to take effort to avoid. "Besides," he continued, "I doubt it's even necessary," he turned to look at Blake, asking, "What _were_ you doing in the White Fang? Carrying letters? Spying?"

"Front line combat," Blake answered mechanically.

"Sir!" Schwarz said nervously, gripping the phone in her hand.

"We still don't have the full story here, she could be a victim of circumstance." Mr. S pointed out. Again, everyone elected to pretend he didn't say that.

"And she _could_ also have joined willingly," Schwarz retorted.

"Well, there's only one way to find out isn't there?" He said, looking over to Blake and asking, "If you could elaborate, that would be nice."

Blake, for her part, was still working to dig herself out of the catatonic state she'd been worked into; mortified into stillness by the sudden reveal of her deepest secrets on live television, the completely off the wall happenings of the past couple of hours, as well as the obligations that kept her from running. It was all for the best, though, she would gather later on: that office was probably the safest place in all of Atlas for her at the time, considering its inhabitants.

"Blake, wake up!" she heard Yang whisper as Ruby worked to gently shake her awake.

"Anytime today, if you could," Mr. S said, just as Blake's brain rebooted and her eyes blinked open, her irises relaxing into gentler circles.

"Uh, well," Blake stumbled awake, "my father was a-"

"Keep it short, we don't have much time," Mr. S said, hiding his impatient tone while he nervously glanced back at the stock screen behind him. "Around twenty words would be ideal," he added, looking back at her.

"Well, I was born into the white fang when it was good...I guess I stuck around too long after the fact," Blake said easily, surprising herself with her own words.

Not for the first time, Mr. S was struck back: this time for a completely different reason than fear or surprise or self preservation. He found himself easily slipping on a mask of calm analysis as his heart rung out in response to the sorrow in Blake's voice: the sorrow of lost ties and crushed hopes. With that, he found himself taken fully away from the strangeness of his situation and drawn into the fact that he was surrounded by _people: p_ eople just like him and everyone he'd ever known, living all over this world and deeply under his power. He wouldn't know how to express this moment until later, but that sorrowful moment would be the healing light that burned away the acid in his heart, and gave him a purpose for being there.

Of course, without the clarity of hindsight all that the sobering moment had managed was to tear him from his idle world of apathetic observation into the harsh reality of the room. 'People' the word seemed to echo in his mind as the distressed voices of investors rung against his ears and the desperate murmurs of worry coming from the factory floor tickled against his ears, and a casual glance toward the girls before him revealed anguish, heart wrenched despair and a stubborn defensiveness as they all seemed to huddle together for protection. He held back a cringe as he felt the endless dread this inspired in his soul. People were getting hurt, in ways that could ruin lives and he-

"Father, you have to save the company!" Weiss's voice called out as she leaned tiredly onto his desk, fear and trepidation leaking through into her words as the extended silence harried her, making more desperate attempts to draw Blake away from his attention.

Mr. S once again, was pulled from his thoughts. That one word, "father" lighting up in his mind, seeming alien the way it left Weiss's lips. 'She wants something,' He thought instinctively, deducing that from her tone, the formality and nice blandness of her words, as well as the fact that her sentence had contained a request.

'Save the company.' The phrase shone in his mind as he clung to it and centered himself.

"Give me a moment, I'm thinking," he turned to Weiss with an earnest tone and false confidence. He quickly turned back to his desk and looked intently into the surface, his heart slowing and that stagnant pool of dread in his stomach lightening as if it had been set aflame, energizing him until excited shivers ran up his shoulders and the world came into crystal clarity. Incidents were gut wrenching and horrible, often requiring that you answer for something, but this...this was a _problem,_ something he could face and look for an answer in.

'I've spent my entire career solving problems, no need to stop now,' he thought confidently as an excited jitter went up hs body and he quickly slipped back into that comfortable suit of engineer. His mind ran faster than he could hardly process, running quickly over thoughts and concepts on levels that couldn't be described with words, as he planned, thought and planned his thinking. In a flash, he came to the first goal, his mind turning and his gut whizzing as he dredged up every last bit of knowledge aboout companies and economics that he could muster, every incident, news article, example, case study and definition he'd ever learned rushing forth to present itself in his minds eye.

A company is a large entity that exchanges goods and/or services in order to make a profit.

...

That was it. Mr. S realized in a panic, once again cursing that charismatic physics professor who'd swindled him into taking Quantum Mechanics as an elective when he was considering a business class!

He quickly dropped that train of thought, however as anxiety began to rise...people were depending on him and he was just sitting here! People were going to-

'Oh,' the thought came.

It was _people_ that he needed to fix this problem for, _people_ that were the cause of those red numbers behind him and, fundamentally, people, panicking people but people nonetheless, that made up Schnee Crop; what those people needed at this moment was a leader, and he would need to become that leader he accepted; a strange calm falling over him as everything fell into perspective.

'Ok, I need to be a leader,' he thought, thinking through the issue in as simple terms as he could muster. 'That's not too bad. I've lead more engineering projects than I can count over the years and this is just like that,' he continued, building confidence. 'Yeah! I'm basically just leading an engineering group after the world's started suspecting us of affiliating with terrorists,' he thought with a hopeful tone shortly before getting serious.

'First order of business, damage control,' he decided, turning to Schwarz with a serious look.

"Schwarz," he said, breaking the increasingly antsy secretary from her focused reverie before continuing on with his plan. "Set up a press meeting for," he paused, taking a moment to confer with his watch, "...twenty minutes from now, and contact the best speech writers you can get a hold of, they have fifteen minutes to write the best speech ever. Offer them whatever we can afford," he ordered, strategically sidestepping any currency names.

"What do you want the speech to say?" Schwarz asked, the purpose driven task doing a great deal to calm her harried nerves shortly before a mad screaming emanated from the tv, drawing all eyes onto the news station once more.

"The White Fang are controlling the Schnee Corporation, man!" a twenty something fellow with bare feet, torn pants and an over sized, green ski hat proclaimed directly into the news camera, completely ignoring the reporter next to him in his frenzied theorizing. "How else do you thing those faunus get all that dust?" he proclaimed with wide open, red eyes as he stepped forward to stare deeply into the camera, "they've been controlling it this entire time! Right under our noses! And now they're ready to reveal themselves! I tell ya that Beacon attack was just the beginning-" the footage suddenly cut off, revealing the very excited news anchor as she struggled to maintain a neutral face for the camera.

"You heard it there from our on-the-ground-reporter Heinz Dasler," the anchor said, leaning forward across her desk. "Though extreme, people are starting to worry as to what _possible_ connection the Schnee family has to the White Fang, and events transpiring are-" a blue light appeared once more as the tv muted.

"Thank you, Schwarz," Mr. S said without having to look over at the secretary. "And as to what I want the speech to say…" Mr. S hesitated, circling a hand in thought and leaning back in his chair, "how about, 'I'm not a terrorist and neither is she'," he said, gesturing towards Blake through the wall of people between them.

"Yes, sir," Schwarz said, tapping furiously onto her tablet, making sure to keep Blake in sight.

"Now, Blake," Mr. S said, standing up from his chair as he did so and pacing around to the front of his desk, "what exactly wa-"

"Wait, you're not planning on going in front of the camera like that, are you?" Weiss interrupted with a genuinely frightened tone.

"Like what?" Mr. S asked, looking down at himself as Winter, Schwarz, Glynda and Ozpin all honed their eyes onto the lower left section of Mr. Schnee's suit jacket.

"Like that!" Weiss said, stepping forward and pointing at a spot on the lower left portion of his suit: and there, just in front of Weiss's finger, was a spot of cloth which, in just the right light, on just the right day, seen by _just_ the right eagle, could possibly have been made out to be a stain.

"So what?" Mr. S responded without thinking.

"What do you mean 'so what'?" Weiss responded angrily, "the company's failing, you can't go out in front of the cameras like you're already a washed up drunk!" as she finished, Ruby self-consciously looked at the macaroni stains decorating her dress.

"I have to agree, sir," Schwarz said.

"It _would_ be bad form," Winter added as Ruby frantically started folding her dress to hide the stains.

"Ok, so do you want me to chang-"

"What is wrong with you!" Weiss interrupted once more, now transitioning to a more personal anger at the man who wouldn't let her eat supper until her clothes were "prim, proper and perfect." "All changing your clothes will do is let everyone know you stained them! And theories about the size of said stain are going to be headlining the news for weeks. Or, wait, they _would_ be headlining the news if you hadn't tanked the company!" Weiss yelled, clicking her heels together and pointing once more to the stock screen.

"Very well," he conceded, eager to move the topic of conversation, "Schwarz, have someone send down another white sui-"

"We no longer carry identical items in your wardrobe sir, not since the duplicate tie incident," Schwarz said with a weary sigh and bad memories.

"Huh," Mr. S sighed, putting his face into his palm. This was going to be a long event.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

* * *

Mr. S sighed into his palm, feeling more and more hopeless by the moment.

"But," Schwarz said, shooting happiness directly into Mr. S's veins more effectively than any drug, "we can have it washed in the laundry room."

"Excellent," Mr. S replied, moving off the desk he'd been leaning against to face the left wall. "You, you, come with me," he gestured towards Ruby and Blake in a commanding fashion before heading towards the door.

Schwarz spoke out, "Wait, you can't go alone with-"

"Schwarz," Mr. S interrupted softly, turning his head aside to look at Schwarz, "do you trust my judgement?"

"Eh..ugh...yes," Schwarz admitted, looking all the while as if she were swallowing mud.

"Good, now-" Mr. S began.

"But...how am I supposed to do all of this by myself! I'd need your help and authorizatio-"

"Delegate!" Mr. S said, walking backwards towards the exit and tossing to her the master access card he'd grown so used to using over the course of the work day.

"Wait…" Schwarz, broken out of her argument, fell into a reverie and caught the card, reverently holding it in two palms, "you're giving me...permission to lead?"

"Yes, do whatever you have to do. I trust you to succeed!" Mr. S shouted back as he walked out the door.

"Wait a minute!" Weiss shouted, rushing out behind him, causing the rest of team RWBY to follow after her, Ruby and Yang herding the still dazed Blake along with them and leaving the room significantly quieter.

Schwarz stood disbelievingly, staring, wide eyed, at the card in her hands as the rest of the visitors sat awkwardly alongside her in the encompassing silence.

Of course, something had to come along and break the peace.

"Schwarz!" the distant voice of Mr. Schnee yelled.

"Yes, sir!" Schwarz yelled back.

"Where is the laundry room!" she heard, shouted back.

"It's on the third level of the basement, sir."

"How many levels are there in the basement, again?" Mr. S asked, as if he were trying to remember the answer which he totally knew all along.

"Ten, sir." Schwarz replied, already swiping the card over her tablet as she sent out the necessary orders.

"So, is it on level negative three or level negative seven?"

"Level negative seven, sir," Schwarz replied.

Once again, there was a quiet as Schwarz tapped away at the tablet she cradled in her forearm.

"...Schwarz, where's the elevator?"

"On your left, sir," Schwarz answered, not looking up from her screen.

* * *

Weiss and company followed suspiciously behind Mr. S as they came upon the elevator.

"What are you up to?" Weiss asked, heels clicking furiously as a now partially awake Blake trailed behind her while sending worried looks in her direction.

"I'm going to wash my shirt, Weiss," Mr. S answered, annoying her with the misuse of proper dress terminology.

"You could wash it on your own, you know," Weiss pointed out aggressively, "why try to drag Blake and Ruby along with you?"

"Oh, I thought I could use the company," Mr. S replied with a casual tone. "Also, I thought it might be important to know more about the "not-a-terrorist" that's managed to draw so much attention recently."

"Then why did you want _Ruby_ ," Weiss said with complete disbelief before pausing a moment to send an apologetic expression back to the pouting, and slightly annoyed, girl behind her.

Mr. S paused a second, thinking of a way he could formulate his answer without using the phrases, "Napoleon Complex","Anger Issues","Axe Murderer", or "Uni Bomber-Kitty" to any significant degree.

"Well, to be honest, she seemed to be the least insane person in your group," Mr. S settled, stopping at the first of a wall of elevator doors and pressing the summon button, really wishing he still had his master access card, which would have given him priority.

"And why should we follow _you_?" Weiss questioned with a heated tone and crossed arms. Here, the gentle ring of the elevator bell chimed, accompanied by a soft hum as the elevator doors parted.

"Because you already are," Mr. S responded in a matter of fact tone, casually stepping into the empty compartment before him and turning aside to face the featureless screen which stood in place of elevator buttons.

"Just answer the question," Weiss retorted sharply as she stepped in behind him and the rest of team RWBY followed in behind her. Despite her stoked fury, Weiss was curious to know the answer; she couldn't return to the office as it was, in any case.

"Because you don't want the company to fail any more than I do," Mr. S responded evenly, "and I'll need your help to give it the best chance of survival," he finished, looking over at team RWBY and at Blake in particular.

Blake shared a sideways glance with Weiss before turning to look at an empty corner of the elevator.

* * *

Mr. S stood silently in the flourecent wash of light that filled the stainless interior of the elevator car, staring back at the judging expression reflected in the elevator doors and cursing himself; he tensed as the compartment bell chimed in arrival, holding back regret at not having asked Schwarz what room number the laundry was in...until the elevator doors opened, that is.

Ding! The bell sounded and the sound of laundry flooded through the parting doors. Stepping out of the elevator, Mr. S felt more as if he were entering a museum than any laundry room. In fact, calling it a "laundry room" would be an injustice; It was more akin to a laundry level, with whirring machines embedded across every wall as far as could be seen, covering every surface up to the high ceiling as complicated machines trawled along the walls, carrying baskets to and fro.

The floor of the room was a clean, white tiled, endeavor decorated with tall shelves of machines that lined the space and between which maids patrolled, carting hampers and staring, wide eyed, at the newest arrivals.

Ding! The next elevator door opened revealing several, heavily armed, security bots which soon exited, leaving behind a worried group of executives as they stepped onto the floor and turned mechanically towards Mr. Schnee.

"Oh, great, who sent _these_ things over?" Weiss asked with a tone of contempt.

That response, coupled with the lack of screaming and running from anyone on the floor, hinted to Mr. S that these killer robots were of the "come with me if you vvant to live" variety, prompting him to ignore the following robots along with the staring maids as he hurriedly picked out the fanciest looking machine within reach and strode towards its location, followed closely by team RWBY and again by the robots.

Stopping just before the rainbow colored, sleek, and ivory chromed washing machine, Mr. S...stared at it in confusion, too afraid to ask where the buttons were.

"Uhm...sir?" Ruby asked, leaning over to look past Yang's shoulder, "do you...not know how to use that washing machine?" she asked with a soft tone.

"Apparently not," Mr. S replied with a resigned voice, still leaning down to stare into the glass globe protruding from the center face of the machine.

"Would you like me to help?" Ruby asked just as softly.

"It would be appreciated," Mr. S replied as Ruby slinked past Yang's worried grasp and stalked slowly over to the machine in question.

'Oh my gods, oh my gods, oh my gods, oh my gods!' Ruby rapidly chanted in her head, 'I can't believe I get to touch a RAZR BACH 9000! '"It's more expensive than the Razr Bach 6000, but it's filled to the brim with all sorts of fun features!"' she quoted, mentally reciting the slogan that had been drilled into her head from childhood. 'I can almost smell the chrome-titanium heating units,' her hands twitched, hovering tensely over the machine as if afraid to touch it.

Mr. S decided to ignore the giddly jumping girl as she smiled maniacally and expertly pulled apart the configurable units of the machine, instead looking over at Blake, who leaned against the wall of washers with her arms crossed as she tried to huddle herself in the barrier the rest of the team had formed around her.

"Blake, was it?" He inquired, drawing the sulking girl's attention as he removed his suit coat and gently folded it up in his hands.

"Yes," she replied coldly, not seeming to understand his words as her distant eyes quickly turned back to examine the flooring ahead.

"Huhhh," Mr. S sighed at the attitude. He knew that look from all the little kids he'd seen sulking at the youth center, and he knew he wouldn't be getting any help until her issues were dealt with. "You know, you've been unusually quiet lately," he ventured, attempting conversation and earning the defensive glares of Weiss and Yang as they closed in closer around Blake.

Blake didn't respond, merely gazing in between the statuesque security bots, watching their sentinel like forms in her periphery as she became lost in the view of the laundry room before her.

"Look," Mr. S started easily, "I realize that you're not having the best of times right now, being accused of being a terrorist and such," he continued, earning another glare from Yang as Weiss continued her last one, "but if we want to salvage the company _and_ your reputation, I'm going to need your cooperation," Mr. S proposed, holding the long silence after he finished his speech.

Blake held her own silence, staring at the reflection in the tiled floor for over a minute as she lethargically moved herself to answer, fighting against the defeated spirit inside of her that was frozen worrying over how this would affect her life at beacon and really just wanted a cat-nap for the next twenty four hours. "What do you need?" she asked, sounding more like a prisoner than she'd intended.

"Just tell me about your time in the White Fang and your affiliation with them. Feel free to go into more detail, we need a story to give to the press," Mr. S quickly answered, eager to move the conversation along.

Blake took a moment to formulate her words while Mr. S waited to the side with a patient mask. "I never killed anyone," she responded coldly.

"We're all well aware," Mr. S interrupted with a calming tone, "we wouldn't be having this conversation if you did."

Another silence.

"Is there anything else of importance to the case you'd like to reveal?" Mr. S asked.

Blake stayed silent while Mr. S continued to wait with an expectant look, even past the point where he knew he wouldn't be getting any more answers.

"Umm, sir," Ruby said in a strained voice, drawing Mr. S's gaze to her struggling form as she forcibly held together a flashing module in her arms, pulling it away from the washing machine it was attached to with a rip chord as she braced a foot against the body of the machine and rested the module on her raised knee. "If you could hand over your coat," she continued breathlessly, "... hurry!"

Quickly, Mr. S tossed the coat towards Ruby, causing the girl to lurch forward with great effort and catch the article of clothing in the modular basket she'd forced open in her hands.

SNAP!

The box snapped shut around the coat and the rip-chord reeled the object into the larger machine, where Mr. S was sure several tornadoes subsequently apparated as the noise level of the machine rose incredibly, though somehow still sounding oddly refined.

Within seconds the box popped out and snapped open, revealing a clean, dry and freshly pressed suit that was warm to the touch and felt like heaven. Mr. S tried not to show any signs of being impressed as he took the coat and put it on, leaving the machine to snap shut and reel back on itself once more as he stepped away from it.

"Huh," Mr. S closed his eyes as the comforting weight of the suit rested once more upon his shoulders, making him feel just slightly more evil in the process. This had not been a productive trip. Although, he had to admit, the suit just _looked better_ without the stain, really rather put together as a whole.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

* * *

"Sir! You're back! I see the security I sent for arrived on time," Schwarz said with a smile as they entered back into the office, the whir of robotics limbs filling the air as two sentinels followed the group in and Weiss returned a look of contempt for the secretary.

"How is everything coming along?" Mr. S responded, not bothering to think of any pleasantries at the moment.

"Everything is proceeding expediently," Schwarz replied, returning to her tablet. "I've sent an invitation to the press for a conference in the main courtyard, and Adolph's just sent in the speech you requested," Schwarz continued, swiping at her tablet and bringing up the speech on one of the office TVs.

"Already?" Mr. S asked, deciding to ignore the fact that they apparently had an in-house speech writer that he should have known on a first name basis. Looking over the speech displayed across the nearby TV screen, Mr. S nodded in approval. He had to admit, it was quite a masterful speech for such a short amount of time; it hit all the right beats, allowed for deviation from the script and, most importantly, was easy to present. Although, Mr. S had to say, the speech might have been a tad too...impassioned.

Looking over the speech several more times, he was soon interrupted as Schwarz appeared by his side and pushed a print out of the speech into his hands. "The Press is gathered sir, they'll be expecting you."

"A moment," Mr. S responded as he pulled out his scroll.

"Yes, sir," Schwarz replied quietly so as to not disturb Mr. Schnee's important preparations. There was no doubt in her mind that he was shifting around millions in stock merely in _preparation_ for his speech. Not wasting the moment, she turned to her own duties, tapping away at her tablet.

Hurriedly, Mr. S typed out "What is White Fang?", readying to define the dozen or so terms he saw on the document and didn't understand. "And while you're at it, run a background check on our speech writer," Mr. S added, not looking away from his scroll.

"Yes, sir," Schwarz added, her eyes flickering over her crowded tablet screen as Mr. S spent the next several minutes looking intently between paper and screen, all while trying to hide the transparent back of his phone from any prying eyes.

Soon enough, he was finished.

Mr. S nervously dallied about on his phone, searching for more excuses to stay behind. Such it was, he leapt in before he could change his mind and proclaimed, "Schwarz, let's go."

"Of course, sir," Schwarz responded, powering down the tablet and placing it onto the desk, wringing her sprained wrist afterwards and receiving a deep look of understanding from the librarian lady.

* * *

Soon, he found himself following Schwarz down a barren hallway with Weiss and the rest of team RWBY walking along behind him. He took a deep breath when the glass doors came into view, a marble stair way and the lush garden beyond it visible through the glass, illuminated by the thousand artificial lights of several dozen news vehicles and camera setups as a crowd of people packed around the podium, stone silent with expectation. Squaring his shoulders, he pushed back all the nervous thoughts bombarding his mind, telling him that he should have set this for an hour later, a day later, that he wasn't prepared, that it wasn't too late to reschedule if he fainted and faked a health crisis.

Shaking away those thoughts, Mr. S looked forward, deciding to use what little time he had on something more productive than being nervous. And, despite his bravado, he had to admit that he _was_ unprepared in at least one respect. Looking down at the speech showed no mention of Blake and, considering the circumstances, he'd have to say _something_ about her on that podium.

"Blake," Mr. S said solemnly, drawing the attention of everyone around him, "I realize you're not in the right mood to want to...act strategically," he said, strategically. "But, for both our sakes, just tell me this…' he paused a moment, formulating the phrase. "Did you stay with the White Fang after they began terrorist activities?"

"Yes," Blake responded, surprising herself with how easy it was to admit that to the man. She knew it was because of how low she must've stood in the man's eyes already, so she didn't really feel shy about confirming his beliefs about her, but, strangely enough, it felt more...freeing than that, like she was talking to a fatherly therapist than "Mr. Schnee". She wasn't sure how to describe it, even to herself.

"But she didn'-", "She never-" Ruby and Weiss both began before they were interrupted by the intensely stern voice of Mr. Schnee.

"How long?" He asked.

"Five years," Blake answered, again without any hesitation despite the fear that crept into her heart at his change of tone. Maybe she was just too tired to hide anymore, the world already thought worse of her.

"But really," Weiss said, chuckling nervously, "she never hurt anybody," she continued as she elbowed Blake in the gut with a whispered "shut up!"

Mr. S breathed thoughtfully through his nose as he brought a hand up to grab his chin. "Is there any evidence that could link you to the white fang after their turn?" he asked with an inquisitive expression.

"Uhhh...Maybe?" Blake answered.

* * *

"...and I remember first learning how she so bravely left the white fang, her only home, immediately, and. I. Say. _Immediately_. after their ideals turned to ones she could no longer support," Mr. S said, almost pounding on the podium with conviction.

Meanwhile, Schwarz stood off to the side behind him as her face showed a perfectly calm mask of concealed emotional turmoil. Team RWBY lined up besides Schwarz in WBYR formation, left to right, showing an alternating pattern of "barely contained rage" and "horrified anxiety".

" _THIS_ is why, I am naming Blake the new head of our Faunus Outreach Committee," Mr. S continued, "which will be dedicated to forming closer ties with the former leaders of the White Fang, the leaders of Menagerie, and all faunus alike, as well as supporting the the kind of Faunus activism which we hope will bring positive change to BOTH Humanity and Faunus kind." Mr. S finished his speech with a smile as Weiss sputtered in the background, breaking composure along with rest of her team as Yang scowled, Ruby hiccuped and a slow look of hopeless despair drew itself across Blake's features for the fourth time that hour. Schwarz herself took it all in stride, striding forward to hook her arm through Blake's and leading her toward the podium ahead before the rest of team RWBY caught on.

Mr. S noticed the approaching pair as they entered into the spotlight and turned slightly to pose for the camera, moving his arm to hug around the terrified-looking faunus' shoulders as a roar of questions and camera Flashes washed over their forms.

Blake, for her part, was still wondering what Mr. S meant by "Faunus outreach committee" and "Blake will be the new head" and "of." Thankfully enough, this distraction left her still enough for the cameras to get some clear shots of her shocked, cat's eyes, expression as Mr. S smiled genially next to her.

Soon after the reveal, Mr. S stepped away from the podium, letting Schwarz take the mic as he walked off with Blake. Schwarz's droning voice was barely heard over the crow of questioning reporters as she informed them that "Mr. Schnee will not be taking any questions at the moment" and the reporters pretended that they couldn't hear her and kept shouting questions. Mr. S walked away from the podium as Blake and the security bots followed along robotically behind him. He was only five yards away from the doors when he tilted his head the slightest bit upward and was greeted with yet another world shattering reveal just as a particularly enthusiastic reporter managed to capture his attention at that critical moment, quieting all the the clamor around her.

Mr. S turned back to the questioning reporter, breaking every protocol about public relations as he did so. One must forgive him for the lapse, however, for any memories about press release etiquette were, at the moment, drowned out by the singular thought of. 'Holy crap! Somebody broke the moon!'

"Mr. Schnee!" the faunus reporter said, adjusting her reporter's hat as her tail wagged behind her. "Eva Landa from the FRA, Atlas Branch" she introduced herself.

"Yes?" Mr. S asked, with a slightly annoyed expression, realizing from the sudden quiet that it was too late to turn back, all the while occupying himself with the new thoughts of 'Was that there this entire time?' and 'How!? How did I miss that!?', partially to keep himself distracted from the pit weighing on his stomach as he awaited the reporter's question, his heartbeat accelerating and his head clearing as he focused, readying himself for the most horrible, difficult questions imaginable; all the while, his mind rushed to come up with the best, most meaningless response to every contingency.

"What do you say to the allegations that you have had dealings with the White Fang?" She asked, tugging at the inside edge of her blazer with one hand to keep it from flapping in the wind as she reached out her other hand to record his response with her scroll.

Mr. S was, at first, puzzled to hear this question on account of having already answered it by virtue of the entire speech he'd just given. Instinctively, however, he caught on to the intent of the query: that was, to trip him up and have him say something stupid and newsworthy. Nervously rushing, Mr. S blinked as he scoured his mind for something, anything, that could act as an answer without causing the apocalypse.

'Uhh,'

"Fake News," He threw out, with all the confidence of the universe behind him.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

* * *

"Sir, we should go," Weiss registered Schwarz's words, turning her head about just in time to train her gaze on the two of them as they discreetly turned a corner behind one of the stone columns.

"Wait!" Weiss managed to yell just as they walked out of sight, pushing her own chair back as she strode quickly towards where she last saw them, shocking the rest of her team into action as they all stood from their respective seats to follow.

"Uhh, Weiss…" Yang asked just as Weiss turned the column "-what did he mean by 'She's a great listener!'" Yang quoted, pitching her voice into the faux familiar, joking tone Mr. S had taken not seconds earlier.

"How am I supposed to know?" Weiss asked, pushing aside the hanging tapestry and frantically inspecting the featureless wall before her. "He must've taken one of the secret passageways!" Weiss grumbled in frustration as she pressed her body flush to the wall, feeling along the marble surface with the tips of her fingers.

"You guys have secret doors?" Ruby asked with a fascinated excitement.

"Where does this passage lead?" Yang asked with a threatening tone.

"I don't know! There's a whole network of passages throughout the entire castle, he could be anywhere!" Weiss responded, backing away from the wall with a dejected expression.

"Do you have any idea where he's likely to go?" Blake asked, trying to be helpful.

"His office!" Weiss sprang up after a second of thought, running further down the marble corridor as Blake rushed to follow her, wide eyed at the prospect of meeting with Mr. Schnee and endeavoring to be less helpful in the future.

* * *

Weiss paced before the locked office door, surrounded by her friends. Yang scowled, leaning by an anxious Blake. Ruby leaned on the opposite wall, looking seriously off into a corner as her eyes flickered and her lips moving with silent whispers, deep in thought. The staccato clicks of Weiss's heels and the measured pace of her footsteps served as good an indicator of the time passed as the wall clock that had been staring down at them from above the office door for the past fifteen minutes.

"Uhh, Weiss…" Yang broke the silence, "are you sure he's going to be coming here?"

"Yes," Weiss responded curtly, still pacing before the office door.

"Well, how _sure_ are you?" Yang asked with an annoyed lilt to her voice, having taken the silent wait time to cool down and now angry that she was no longer angry enough to do something rash when Mr. Schnee showed his face.

"I'm eighty percent sure, Yang," Weiss responded shortly, herself testy over the situation.

"Oh, and how sure are you about _that_ ," Yang responded quickly, knowing she shouldn't but deciding to tease the high strung heiress like it was a Tuesday.

"Twenty percent," Weiss responded with equal confidence, shocking Yang with the lack of eye rolling or annoyed yelling.

"Uh, what?" Yang asked, still trying to wrap her head around the matter. "You just said you were…"

"I'm twenty percent sure that I'm eighty percent sure. How much simpler could it get!? Now could you be...Quiet. For just a second?" Weiss said, on the verge of shouting as her voice echoed throughout the cavernous halls.

Yang pressed herself back against a wall with a cautious expression, deciding it might be best to save her personality until after Weiss was done having the epic boss battle with her father.

The silence reinstated itself for all of twenty seconds before receiving a timely lack-of-noise complaint from team RWBY's namesake.

"Ahahah!" Ruby broke the silence with a light laugh.

"What." Weiss asked through her teeth, hackles raised and barely holding herself together at the sudden outburst. She knew Ruby wouldn't ever laugh _at_ her, not with any ill intention, anyway, but it still grained at her psyche in her current state...she really just needed an excuse to yell, Weiss concluded, trying to ignore the lead pumping through her heart and weighing it down as she tried to find out what was going on.

She'd just kissed Blake on live television and he'd just laughed it off, suddenly all but declared himself pro-faunus, tied her to his ruined legacy, whipped up the atlas elite and anti-faunus sentinet all across the continent while he was at it, and he did all of this just as she went public with the fact that she was dating Blake...Blake, the faunus!

So, in light of this, "What could be so funny?" Weiss asked, glaring down at Ruby who was leaning against a wall for support, she was laughing so hard.

"Her, ahahaha, Blake's ears," Ruby laughed, pointing a finger up at the two protrusions wiggling about atop Blake's head.

"What?" Weiss asked, her anger flushing itself down and her worries dissipating for the moment as she figured it was best to leave behind all memory of her father for the moment.

"She's an excellent listener, don't you get it!" Ruby replied, still laughing. "She has four ears, _and_ she's really quiet all the time! Ahahahaha, It just works on so many levels," Ruby said, somehow laughing loudly and softly at the same time as she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

Weiss blinked, "Yeah, Ruby...I got that..." she said, almost sadly, shaking her head as she turned away from her teammate while internally labeling that moment as the stupidest thing she'd lived through in her entire life so far. In fact, she was certain that was the stupidest thing she would live through _ever_.

"Ms. Schnee," A commanding voice echoed through the hall, turning the heads of team RWBY towards the approaching figure of Glynda Goodwitch as she headed the approaching group of people.

"Oh, Ms. Goodwitch, Professor Ozpin," Weiss stood at attention, nodding her head to each respective figure.

"Uncle Qrowww!" Ruby yelled jumping up to tackle the remaining figure in a full body hug.

"Hey there, kiddo," Qrow responded with a slow chuckle, rolling with the impact and lightly shaking the excitable girl hanging off his arm.

"What are you doing here?" Yang asked.

"We're just here to break into Mr. Schnee's office," Qrow said.

"Oh, ha ha," Weiss threw back with a glare, "even if you could get past the biometrics, I doubt you could ever convince such upstanding indi-" CLICK a sound interrupted Weiss as Glynda stood before the metal doors, holding out her glowing riding crop to point at the door.

CLICK, another, softer, click resonated from the internal mechanisms of the door as Glynda twitched her wrist, pushing the metal halves inward.

"What are you doing?" Weiss asked, managing to sound indignant and deferential in the same sentence.

"We're trying to find the big S," Qrow said with a casual drawl as he strode in through the doors, "word on the street says this is the place to find him," Qrow said with a pointed glance at Weiss.

"This-this is illegal!" Weiss said as the rest of her team flowed around her to get in through the doors.

"The rules can get...bent in strange situations," Ozpin explained as he strode into the office, looking back at her with an understanding look.

"But, but, we can't just burst into the office! He's not even here!" Weiss implored.

"And that's likely to be the case if he sees us loitering outside of it," Ozpin replied.

"It's sti-" Weiss began.

"You coming or not?" Yang added, looking back through the door as she strolled in.

"Ugh, fine," Weiss slouched, steeping in through the doors. It's not as if things were likely to get any more nonsensica than they already were.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

* * *

The soft pads of shoes and the mechanical whirr of robotic limbs filled the empty hallway as they headed back towards the office. At the head of the group, Mr. S drank in the silence as he anxiously awaited the stream of yelling, panic and bad news he'd grown accustomed to, the silence teasing at him as he tensed and seemed to hold his breath endlessly, just waiting for the first complaint.

He caught himself about to stumble, his footing suddenly unsure as a deep exhaustion soaked into his body, all of this compounded with a sudden dour note that rung about in his brain.

Far too quickly, he felt his patience withering under the pressure. Claustrophobia setting in under the now stifling warmth of the building, unable to gather his thoughts as he readied to turn away any accusation even as the primary focus of his thoughts lay in pointless agonizing about the moon.

In either case, despite every rational thought and reason that told him otherwise, he felt the instinct to act. He had to do _something_ after all, especially under the increasingly hounding weight of responsibility he'd put upon himself as a leader.

Bracing himself, he turned slightly, watching team RWBY pacing alongside him, all with neutral expressions as Blake and Weiss walked along, almost dazed as their partners helped to almost push them along.

"So…" he began, nothing coming to mind other than the thought that 'So,' was a terrible way to begin a speech, "good job team, great job out there," he rushed through, quickly turning back to hide his cringing expression.

'Genius, absolutely Genius.'

Surprisingly, this didn't elicit a response from Weiss, which he elected to take as good news, even as the continual silence set an ominous tone in the air.

"If I may be so bold, sir," Schwarz tentatively breached the silence after a moment, "was it wise to say what you said about Blake's departure from the white fang?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" Mr. S replied.

"Well, it was...untrue, sir," Schwarz said.

"Lying is ok when it's beneficial, Schwarz," Mr. S explained, circling his hand up as he did so.

"No- I just mean, it might be troublesome since the white fang now has a means of disproving you and hurting your image," Schwarz said, politely omitting a "further" from her sentence.

"I doubt they have the means," he answered easily, "they can deny what I said, yes, but providing proof is another matter considering that they aren't renowned for their internal record keeping; even if they were, their files aren't exactly available for auditing, so any proof they present will be exactly as verifiable as what they wrote on toilet paper yesterday," he said, feeling a lightness come over his chest as he finally had the chance to explain his reasoning, drawing comfort from that familiar act and structure, as well as the surety it seemed to give his actions.

"Ok, ok, wait," Weiss interrupted, shaking her head as if clearing something off of it. She strode ahead to match Mr. S in the hallway, the rest of RWBY following soon after as if tied to her with a rubber band. "You're telling me that you actually _planned_ this? That what you did on that stage was the result of rational thought? That you aren't planning to admit to some heretofore unknown drug addiction scandal and take back what you've just said?" Weiss clarified, a steady tension in her voice.

"You seem upset," Mr. S analyzed.

"Guh! Bah! Wha! Geehuhh!..." Wess clenched her fists as the distilled unamusement of many a lady before her seemed to express itself in her tiny body.

Weiss calmed, almost instantly, as Blake's hand reached to touch her own, saying "Yes, we're upset," as Weiss nodded in agreement, electing to focus on her breathing exercises rather than waste any more breath yelling.

'Breath in...and out,' Weiss recited mentally, focusing herself. She could remain calm, by getting angry she was only truly hurting herself.

'There!' She thought, preparing herself as she readied to stand impassive before even the worst condescension and lies her father could muster.

"Well, is there anything I could do to help you feel better?" Mr. S asked in a genuine tone, knowing that he was supposed to be Hitler, but electing to default to his own personality for the time being.

"Huhhhh," Weiss inhaled, exhaling, "fwhooooo," as she closed her eyes and a shudder of rage ran up her body. Blake, for her part, valiantly held off the looks of agony as Weiss's hand suddenly turned into a vice grip around her own.

"No," Weiss answered after a moment to collect herself.

And then, there was a calm. Not merely a silence, but an understanding truce between both sides that nothing would be gained from arguing any longer.

Of course, Mr. S, despite his wearied state, had to help make it better.

"Are you sure?" He asked. "I mean, the Faunus Outreach Committee seemed-"

"Are you serious!" Weiss shouted, taking a slight pause to mentally organize all her complaints. "Not only do you decide to risk everything and put us in the spotlight, you thought it was a great idea to stir up the other families against us like this? I mean, none of this even helps you!? You could literally have disappointed me less by doing nothing, but you put in the work! And what do you think you're doing trying to stick Blake as the head of your Faunus Outreach Committee?" She gestured with a hand towards Blake. "What even _is_ the Faunus Outreach Committee!?" Weiss yelled, abruptly stopping, taking the grammar mistake as a sign that she'd gone too far before quickly returning to her less than calm breathing exercises.

"Well...Mr. S fell back, still stinging from the tirade as he scrambled to explain himself, "Ideally, It's meant to be a Committee that," he paused a moment, thinking, "reaches...out...to the Faunus community."

For a brief moment, Weiss felt her heart stop, but Blake took that moment to fill in.

"I won't be joining your Committee," she threw back, keeping Weiss's attention on her. "And there's no such thing as a 'Faunus Community', we're a diverse group with our own traditions."

"See, that's one stereotype corrected already; you're a natural for this job," Mr. S threw back cheerfully, still unable to unscramble the day's events as they rushed to flood into his addled mind.

"I said I'm not taking the job," Blake replied, regaining her confidence as the fears of arrest grew distant with time and hazy against all that had taken place.

"Oh, that's just nerves talking," Mr. S said, having run out of the mental energy to reply with anything other than stock phrases and repetitious wording.

"No, It's not," Blake said with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh, then I suppose you'd be able to provide a _reason_ as to you wouldn't want to head to committee?" Mr. S said, asking as if he'd just won a court case with that argument.

"Because I don't want to work for someone like you," Blake said, almost questioning herself even through the direct tone of her sentence.

"Well, don't think of it so much as 'working for me' then as much as…" he took a moment, "a third party advisory role in exchange for payment."

"I don't want your money," Blake said.

"Well, don't think of it as 'getting paid' then as much as...gaining the ability to direct funds towards worthy causes, among other benefits."

"What benefit could I get by working with you?" Blake asked, curious as to what the answer would be, even as she understood that she'd never understand it.

"Well, despite my speech, I'm sure that a large portion of the world still connects you with the White Fang," he said with a dry tone, "and doing some good, even with me as an affiliate, will help you to distance yourself from that image."

"And what 'good', would I be doing exactly?" She asked, surprising herself with the not too-insignificant level of curiosity she'd held behind that question, the feeling made all the stranger as a sudden awareness that she was holding a conversation with Mr. Schnee came over her.

It wasn't any feature of the conversation that surprised her, rather it was the relative normalcy of it considering who she was talking too. Most likely, as she would later analyze, this feeling was due to the fact that, despite all her imaginings about the fall of the SDC, and her occasional musings about the mad cackle parties it's head must've held, she'd never imagined him...talking, to her, or anyone for that matter.

Mr. S, to his credit, was quick to answer her question. "Well, you'd know what to do better than I, wouldn't you? I mean, you certainly have more than a passing interest in the welfare of Faunus kind."

"If you're so eager to do 'good', then why not hire someone more qualified? Why ask me? I'm a student and I'm focused on being a huntress," Blake asked, tentative curiosity blooming as every exchange seemed intensely more interesting than the last.

"Blake, it's a committee," he pointed out with a half chuckle as he remembered his own experiences, "you're not expected to do _actual_ work."

"So it's a sham," Blake observed as everything suddenly fell into place, not feeling so much disappointed as...vindicated? Although there was a strange hollowness to the feeling.

"If that's what you choose to make of it," he answered smoothly. "It's up to you, in the end, if it ends up being a bunch of tea parties or if it becomes something you're proud to look back on."

"So, I'd have actual power as the head of this organization," Blake said, still reeling from the whiplash of this conversation. It didn't seem like he was playing a joke, so it still demanded her attention, if only to figure out what it was he was scheming for.

"Yes," He replied with a sure certainty.

Blake for her part, didn't react beyond a bewildered blink. "And I'd have complete independence from the SDC?" She asked, a soft intensity to her voice, only held back from getting closer to Mr. S by the fact that Weiss walked in between them, giving the occasional curious glance to Blake as Ruby and Yang silently watched the exchange like it was a tennis match.

"Well…" Mr. S said with a hesitant voice. He was trying to do the right thing, and this was the best plan he'd come up with in whatever time he'd had, but he wasn't ready to give a complete stranger that much power, no matter how tragic a backstory she had.

"Nevermind," Blake said with a superior smile, even as a dour tone weighed on her voice. "I won't be taking the job, so don't strain yourself," she said before Weiss's eyes shined at the sight ahead and she gripped Blake's hand harder and lead her team ahead, pacing towards the office door that shone out before them.

Mr. S watched as the team strode ahead, and as Weiss whispered sternly to the rest of the group -- coaching them about something, perhaps.

Schwarz only kept her pace, working furiously at her scroll as she thought through every reason why Mr. Schnee would have done what he did, every reason why his actions made sense, and only felt deeper guilt and uncertainty when she couldn't come up with a single one.

Taking her breath, she opened her mouth to question, but, after a thought, merely held her silent frustration as she reprimanded herself for her public questioning, even as her heart fell at the apparent senselessness of the answers she'd been given.

* * *

Mr. S stepped through the softly flowing air and into his office, fully appreciating the warm, yellow light that filled it as he walked in. Quickly, he noticed the semi-circle of chairs that curved around the front of his desk as well as the figures that sat in them, staring at him.

Ozpin, Glynda and Qrow sat in the leftmost chairs, while RWBY sat in formation on the opposite side, looking exhausted. Winter stood in the left corner as she, like everyone else in the room, stared at him.

Mr. S walked past the gap in between Ruby and Qrow, followed by Schwarz as he turned in front of his desk and looked back at the group of people before him. Schwarz stood beside him, placing her scroll away before looking back up to stare at him.

Mr. S, after a brief period of thought, realized that everyone was staring at him.

His first instinct, one which he barely held back, was to look out at the staring crowd and say 'What?' in as casual a way as possible.

Instead, he looked out at the gathered throng and said, "Yes?" in as unceremonious a fashion as possible.

There was a pause as everyone waited. Team RWBY, for their part, merely leaned back against their chairs with various looks of exhaustion and self pity. All silent as they struggled to come up with words that could convey their shock and surprise at the events of the day.

"I am shocked and surprised," Qrow said, breaking the silence.

"Well, that's getting rather wearisome, so I certainly hope you come out of it soon," Mr. S replied, with a tinge of annoyance in his voice. "No matter what you may think I believe, I've no problem with people of either race," he continued, hedging his bets on the fact that Mr. Schnee seemed like one of those high-brow racists that prefered poetic prejudice to street side rants.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Qrow blinked back after an amazed silence, "I was just expecting more coughing and hacking when you referred to faunus as people."

"Well, I doubt my history would point to anything that would suggest I'd degrade my vocabulary with bad logic over the matter," Mr. S said, feeling the exhaustion weighing further and further on him as every bit of energy he tried to muster seemed to unravel at an accelerating pace. Really, all he could have ever wanted at this point was some sleep.

"I'm sorry, what are you trying to say?" Qrow said, having genuine difficulty understanding as he swayed back into his chair and tried not to slur his words.

"I'm saying I don't have any problems calling faunus people," Mr. S said curtly, realizing he should just kick them out and sleep but feeling an instinct to finish this stupid conversation for some reason.

"I'm sorry," Qrow said breathily as he half burped, pausing a long moment as he tried to regain his place in the sentence, "could you say that again?" He asked, still in disbelief as his general drunkenness exposed itself more and more.

"I said I don't have any problems calling faunus people," Mr. S replied, leaning back against his desk as his legs buzzed with exhaustion and his lids began to feel heavy over his eyes.

"You know…" Qrow paused, as if struggling to come up with what words to say while counting something out on his hands, "if I had a million lien for everytime you said that, I'd be a millionaire."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

* * *

On the whole, if one were to undertake the presumptuous task of assigning to them a character, the people of Remnant could quite comfortably be described as Somber and Introspective.

The introspectiveness, they shared with every being which had gained self awareness.

Their somber nature, on the other hand, has sometimes been tentatively assigned as the effect of cohabitating with soulless monsters that would take every opportunity to kill them.

Of course, their peculiar circumstances, and resulting mood, makes them stand out in this respect, and they, despite lacking any points of reference, are sometimes aware of this.

As an example, an oft quoted, and occasionally misattributed, epigram by an anonymous Mantel humorist speaks quite plainly on the matter, saying: Remnans are a very strange people. Despite living on a world where soulless monsters would murder us at the slightest instance of a negative emotion, we, even the adults among us, have still elected to feel quite badly about our situation.

Meant as a soft rebuke against Mantel's, largely unsuccessful, campaigns of emotion suppression, it was shared quite extensively in underground resistance circles throughout Solitas, and, over time, it had become a sort of tradition to respond to the statement with the sarcastic, "yeah, nothing gets people to cheer up like the threat of violence if they don't." The subsequent eye rolling was optional, but nonetheless strictly adhered to.

The epigram, and resulting traditions, traveled far beyond Mantel, however, spreading throughout the nations, succeeding the war and, eventually, Mantel itself, to become ingrained into the cultural fabric of post war Remnant, where it continued to act as a contrasting backdrop to the latest of the strangely hopeful "color" generation that followed.

Ruby Rose was part of that latest "hopeful" generation which, having yet to get the hope beaten out of them, strayed in some respects from the somber mood that had preceded them in all the previous generations of remnant.

And Ruby Rose, an especially hopeful person among her hopeful generation, stood out greatly from the planetary outlook which weighed on Remnant; being a generally positive person by nature, she was characterized by her near unbounded optimism, kind heart, ability to see the best in people, as well as the strength to look for best of any situation. Moreover, beyond the effect this attitude might have had on her actions, it also went to great lengths to shape her philosophy: for she was one of the countless thousands who had been swept up in the good feelings of new government following the war, having given herself entirely over to the nigh utopian ideals of Republicanism and Self Governance.

For these reasons, it had long been assumed that Ruby Rose was the second most hopeful person on Remnant, when, in fact, she was the fourth; in this particular instance however, that had been enough. For, in between Qrow saying something he shouldn't have and Mr. S preparing to say something he shouldn't, she had become the first to notice, or, more likely, the first person to accept the nature of, the glowing graph behind Mr. S.

"Um, Mr. Schnee, I think your company's getting better!" Ruby announced softly, pointing a steady finger to the stabilizing line graph behind the man.

Mr. S twisted around, tired eyes focusing on the warmly glowing yellow of the graph as everyone else moved pointedly to stare at the screen.

To his credit, Mr. S replied quickly and confidently, turning back around with a self-assured swagger and saying, with a barely restrained chuff of amusement, "Of course It's getting better!"

Immediately, nine pairs of eyes converged on him, awaiting an explanation.

Mr. S, meanwhile, stayed silent, praying internally that the stock wouldn't fall again. Partially, he did this out of a lack of any true answers to give, mostly, he stayed on account of the overcoming lethargy which, at this point, had slowed his reactions down to the extent that every question, particularly the unstated ones, seemed an intractable mess to comprehend.

Schwarz was only a moment ahead of him, however, eyes sparkling open in wonderment as, for her, everything seemed to fall back into it's natural order and the world began to make sense again.

"Of course!" She all but shouted with a giddy excitement, compelled to speak by the overwhelming lightness of feeling which had overtaken her. She almost laughed: "I thought you'd given into sentimentalism with your faunus outreach idea, but, by explicitly not backtracking on the Blake issue, you've managed to convey stability! And you've even pushed the white fang issue out of the news," she said with an almost rambling, completely relieved tone previously exclusive to the pardoned.

Schwarz kept her pitch perfect posture through this, but minor imperfections leaked through on account of her emotions and non-royal training; a slight slouching of form as a content smile attempted to draw itself across her face, and her eyes seemed to wander lazily across a world that was no longer attempting to bear its weight upon her.

Following her eyes, everyone could see the banner running across the bottom of the muted screen, reading: "Faunus outreach, what does it mean?" And, beyond the ominous looking headshot of Blake still hanging in the corner of the image, all memory of the white fang seemed, for the moment, absent.

"That wasn't quite all of it, but you've managed to do a well enough job going over the broad strokes," Mr. S replied in a conversational tone, turning to face Schwarz and smiling as some noticeable amount of alertness seemed to pop back into his features.

Schwarz looked up at him with absolute wonderment, as if sustaining herself on the words and praise of the man, as well as on the fact that the impending ruin he'd been plotting towards all night had been averted to an extent.

**Beep, Beep! Beep, Beep!**

Of course, her further wonderment of, as well as quality time with, her boss would have to wait, as Mr. S turned back and, once again, fished his scroll from his pocket; looking down at the screen, he could see a picture of a particularly angry looking mustachioed fellow underlined with the name "Sonnig Nachrichten".

'Huh, so this _does_ show names,' Mr. S thought, picking up the call in the regular fashion before putting the scroll to his ear...and pulling it sharply back just as quickly.

The indistinct, static-muffled sounds of yelling spread throughout the room; a half garbled sentence of "SLANDER!...MY STATION!..." managed to make it out before Mr. S regained the wherewithal to lower the sound, putting the phone back against his ear as he wearily leaned back against the desk.

Mr. S sat there for a long moment, seeming all the time as if he were on the verge of getting a word in, yet always too late to capitalize on the moment.

As it was, he spent the next several moments keeping from nodding off and responding to the occasional pause with a monosyllabic, "Yeah," and, of course, the occasional, "of course," which was, of course, accompanied with unnecessary head nodding, of course.

All the while, Mr. S seemed to age in real time as the tiredness beneath his eyes grew and the furrow in his brows deepened, his hair seeming to wilt as the fluorescent light glistened off of the white strands.

Qrow for his part, grew tired of the exceeding boredom that had overtaken the place. Turning to the TV, he, once again, unmuted the device. Not because he couldn't lip read what the anchors were saying, but because he couldn't lip read easily while drunk, and, as has already been established, he was bored.

"...this be an attempt to-?"

Again, Schwarz muted the device, remote held out towards and glare locked on the offending Qrow. Despite her greatest instinct, Schwarz held her silence, careful not disturb Mr. S, who's scowl had etched itself deeper onto his expression at the sound of the television.

Qrow held his own silence as well, but he wasn't one to back down.

"...recently secured Mr. Polendina's-"

Schwarz held the remote out tensely, as if she might be able to make the muting stick by gripping onto the device tighter as she ground her teeth and dared him to try it again.

Qrow didn't hesitate for a moment.

"...Stock options-"

Again, the click of buttons.

"... _has_ stabilized, although how much of this can be attributed to child company assets…"

Schwarz moved to raise her hand once more until she felt a very light hand pressing on her arm. Looking over, she could see the annoyed face of Mr. Schnee looking at her, as if saying "just leave it."

Annoyed, Schwarz left off, leaving the remote to rest on the tabletop even as she glared daggers at Qrow through the news broadcast which now televised throughout the room.

Mr. S was, himself, not doing much better, taking on that look which all men seemed to develop whenever they were, by some tenuous obligation, forced to discuss subjects they didn't care about in the slightest.

As the one sided conversation dragged, and the television blared, and the people stared, Mr. S found a sickness bubbling up in his stomach, feeling the reality around him turn ever more poisonous with every additional second he found himself staring at the antiseptic floor of the office room. This sickness of feeling only served to remind him of the ever deepening exhaustion which had been setting in ever since the press conference. And, it was, at this point, with the good news of stabilizing stock behind him, and the dreary weight of the day weighing upon him, that he realized just how little he cared about the small voice yelling into his ear. And, as if guided by fate itself, it was just at this moment that the voice on the other end inflected and paused, for the first time asking a question it actually expected an answer to.

Mr. S, despite the instructive lessons of the past day, decided to answer with the truth.

"Well, Mr. Sonnig," he began, a hint of calming serenity falling over his expression, "it _was_ pretty fake."

* * *

The longer she dwelt on the issue, the more it bothered Weiss how angry she'd been of late.

More than that, it concerned her how, despite her best efforts, she couldn't even say how it came to be like this.

How!? How did she come to have so little control over her life?

She seethed as distant memories of her childhood resurfaced like old wounds, the hazy, numbing chill as she learned to look through the facade everyone around her carried, the fiery recoil as she learned to hate them for it, to hate herself.

'It should all have been over by now,' she tormented herself with the thought, recalling her blissful fantasies of how she would have rebuked her father's so called "punishment" of disinheritance, shown him how little he ever meant to her and left him behind, forever! She would have taken her past, everything he'd taught her, all the hate and anger he'd pushed upon her, everything he'd warped her into, and thrown it back in his face!

She could _finally_ have been happy, she remembered with a hardening gaze, not merely content for whatever brief moment she could gather, but, for the rest of her life, deeply and truly happy.

Yet here she sat, with a perfect posture and dignified expression, and looked on with a calculating analysis, trying to understand how it was she'd so completely lost control over even this small measure of defiance.

Subtly, she turned her eyes upon him, not showing on her face the slightest portion of the tumultuous rage that burned. Yet before her eyes could land upon him, an act which she knew would only further fuel her anger, a sulking figure in a black dress passed over her periphery.

Here, she calmed, consciously focusing as she counted every rise and fall of her chest. 'There are things outside of your anger,' she thought, remembering the phrase after a moment's searching pause.

'Blake feels worse than you ever could,' the thought struck out as she looked on at Blake, a pang of guilt ringing painfully out as she struggled to maintain her mask.

'I should hold her hand,' the thought came mechanically.

Weiss, in her exhausted state, for once followed her own advice without the usual hesitancy and second guessing analysis she experienced in all matters relating to Blake.

"Blake," Weiss whispered, speaking crisply, yet softly, so softly that she could scarcely hear herself and lowering her voice further to the point that Blake had taught her to speak their secrets.

Blake's ears twitched, through her eyes still locked on the tiling ahead, focused in thought.

"Blake," Weiss spoke again, careful not to speak any louder even as she focused an importance into her voice, trusting that Blake would hear her.

Blake turned her eyes to her, as if to ask "what?"

"Hold my hand," Weiss all but mouthed, stretching her arm out and sensing a lightness come over her guilt as she saw the amused smile which drew itself across Blake's features.

Weiss returned a reassuring smile of her own, whispering, "everything's going to be alright, I promise" as she felt Blake's hand wrap around her own.

And that was just the issue.

Weiss could feel the warmth of Blake's hand in her own….and that was all she could feel. The anger still flared, untempered within her. She could feel a sickening guilt coming on as she searched for and failed to find that calmness which always came when she was with Blake.

Turning away her eyes, she tried to remember the feeling even if she couldn't find it.

Still, she could still only feel the clouding anger, having to force her eyes away from the object of her hate, barely managing to succeed in doing just that when her father's voice spoke out clearly once again, bursting out from the background noise of tenebreous agreement it had faded into as Mr. S spoke, "Well, it _was_ pretty fake," and Weiss found her eyes focusing on him before she could think to stop them.

All her guilt and inhibitions burned away as her thoughts, once again, focused fully on her father.

And it was here, as she saw her father almost shying away from the yelling scroll speaker, seemingly struggling to hold back a wince of discomfort even as a joking mirthfulness played at his lips, that she understood what it was that had made her so extraordinarily angry.

This man, he didn't look like her father, not in the slightest. The exaggerated, upward curl of his lips whenever something amused him, the softer, downward curve of his eyes, the more relaxed round of his shoulders; these minute though present changes, unnoticeable to anyone without her skills and familiarity, changed him completely.

It was as if he'd disappeared into someone else just in time to escape me! She thought, squeezing her hand with growing rage as she stared for an indeterminable amount of time at the distorted visage before her, trying to make sense of the nonsensical reality which seemed to be presenting itself.

Perhaps, she thought, his growing tiredness was the cause of the change. But the fact that she could read him well enough to tell that he was tired was strange enough in itself!

Despite her anger, Weiss focused on this new discovery and stilled, analyzing her father's face with wonder, as if mesmerized by all the new expressions which seemed to be playing out across it.

She watched with an unconcealed interest as he, suddenly, stopped responding to the short feinting pauses that seemed to demand he give some short and satisfying answer. She could see his eyes begin to harden as the exhaustion buried itself and a thousand invisible switches seemed to switch in unison.

Weiss felt her heart still at this, feeling as if someone were pouring ice water through her veins. Looking forward with widening eyes, she once again saw her father in the man. She saw those thousand, minute, expressions turn in unison to once again to rebuild the unchanging, subtle look of disdain Mr. Schnee always seemed to wear.

Weiss gripped Blake's hand all the tighter, all for her girlfriend's sake, of course. Blake might be scared or something.

* * *

Mr. S felt something change about him. His face suddenly formed strangely into some inconceivable expression, and his posture locked rigidly into those alien memories of a different body.

Beyond that, however, he just _felt_ different, in a way that should only have been possible by changing reality itself. If he had to describe it, he felt as if he'd suddenly found himself in an empty and strange room, with all the worries of the world seeming impossible to care about.

Yet….he was still here, standing in the office, listening to some overly self-important news paper guy yell at him through a phone.

"Sonnig…." Mr. S spoke softly and slowly, as if even the idea of interruption was preposterous. Still, despite speaking with a voice no louder than a conversational enphrasing, he surprised himself with how completely it filled the room with its vociferous mass.

Mr. Nachrichten, for all the miles he was separated from the conversation, and for all the static and distortion that stood in between their conversation, must have been spared none of the impact the voice carried, for, shortly after Mr. S spoke, his voice quickly trailed away into a slowing nothingness.

"...remind me," he spoke, breaking a tense silence, "I seem to have forgotten," he continued, putting no little amount of dry amusement into his voice, "which of us is dependent on whom?"

This, Mr. S spoke with a deliberate slowness he'd never been used to, watching as the entire room seemed to have caught back on to his words, surprised at how easily he'd faded into the background before, whereas now, his every word seemed to demand attention, not for whatever message it conveyed, but for the simple fact that he spoke it.

The voice on the other side was quick to respond, layering their words with a thick sense explanation.

Mr. S held a long silence, as if the thought to respond had yet to capture his attention.

After a moment, he did respond. "Really?" he said this, again, with that dry amusement. "I could have been fooled," he stated, dangerously.

The voice spoke out once more, somehow managing to speak even faster until the words became a stream of uncoordinated expressions of regret.

"I don't _care_ what you control," Mr. S interrupted, continuing, "I want it fixed."

Again, the voice was quick to comply, speaking resolutely in its promises and questions.

"Don't 'fix' the damage, make it look good. By next week, I want the ball to be a distant memory and I want Blake Belladonna's name to be the best thing since dust!...Fine! Put me through," Mr. S said, accepting the offer and quickly stopping himself from showing a surprised face at who he'd just been connected to.

Carried on by that strange instinct which seemed to be lofting him, Mr. S spoke on, confidently ignoring whatever questions arose in favor of acting.

"Well, you can start by announcing, unequivocally, that Ms. Belladonna never worked with the White Fang when they were committing terrorist acts. I don't want anymore of this, 'weighing the evidence,' nonsense, Mr. S spoke, sardonically gesturing his free hand.

"Ha, ha!" An abrupt and nervous laughter shot out from the television screen, demanding the attention of everyone in the room as the news anchor stood center stage on the screen, pressing a shaking hand tightly against her earpiece. "Oh, we, uh, regret to inform the audience that we have, made an error in our reporting," she spoke, taking a quick pause as she gathered herself. "New evidence has come to light showing that Blake Belladonna has had NO AFFILIATION with any terrorist factions of the White Fang."

"And mention how she left the organization early," Mr. S added,

"And, our source indicates that she had, in fact, broken off all ties with the white fang prior to any assumptions of worldwide terrorist activities," the anchor continued, keeping any nervous laughter to a minimum.

"And take that ghastly portrait off the screen!" Mr. S continued, watching the ominous looking portrait of Blake fade quietly away in real time. "Ok, now replace it with a better picture….what do you mean you can't find one where she's smiling?"

Meanwhile, the anchor continued to stretch her words, managing to say nothing as she anxiously waited for instructions and tried not to say anything that hadn't been said before. Meanwhile, a banner underneath her scrolled past, reading, "Blake Belladonna: Not A Terrorist."

"Ok, that's satisfactory," Mr. S said, adding, "for now." Looking at the time on the tv screen, he saw that it was already two a.m. and he, once again, became acutely aware of how tired he'd become, the struggle to keep that out of his voice only compounding his exhaustion. Shaking off his unsteadiness he quickly listed out his remaining instructions: "Keep the news cycle clear of the white fang and interview anyone who'll be helpful to my message. Feel free to interview some dissenting voices as well, but make sure that they look insane….Yeah, send the narrative out to all the networks and…" he paused here, listening to the softly spoken words on the other end.

"I don't know! Just talk about how nice my jacket looked until you do, then! And make sure to say the stock is doing better." he threw out before quickly hanging up, desperate to finish the conversation.

"And, did you notice, by the way," the anchor now turned to her partner, "how radiant Jacques Schnee looked in his new suit?"

"Yes," the co-anchor nodded, solemnly closing her eyes, "it looked almost brand new, and….I think it had a matte finish as well?"

"I think it might've been…"

All the while, as they spoke, the stock information for SCHN soared up on the television screen.

Several moments later, the screen behind Mr. S did the same, moving into a steady climb as the room tinged green once more.

Schwarz was gladdened to see this, realizing fully the true genius of Mr. Schnee's plan as, by not panicking and waiting until now to direct the news, he'd given the impression that the resulting narrative occurred naturally and from free thought! A blush came to her cheeks as she remembered how she'd doubted him earlier.

Schwarz, simply enough, was content for the moment in realizing how instrumental Mr. Schnee had been in averting the crisis. Naturally, she successfully ignored the thought that he was also responsible for the crisis in the first place.

Mr. S sighed comfortably as he slipped the scroll back into his pocket, dreaming of, almost feeling, the airy coolness of mattress and blanket which awaited him. Turning his eyes towards the door that stood in between him and that dream, he could see the half questioning, half amazed glances circled between him and that door.

"...Yes?" he asked, desperately wanting to ignore them yet unable to leave without having finished this, once and for all.

Of all of them, Ruby was the first to act. "Buh, gwuh, buh, yuh," she stood up with convulsive gestures, hands flashing out with robotic movements as she tried to express the half horrified expression that colored her face, finally managing to utter, with the high tinged fury of youth, "YOU CONTROL THE NEWS!?" sounding almost accusatory for all her questioning features.

Mr. S, aware that he, perhaps, should have refrained from controlling the news in sight of witnesses did the only thing his fog addled mind could think to do….push the problem onto somebody else.

It was thus he turned to Weiss, extended a confused hand, and said, "you didn't tell them this?" with a mixed voice of expectant disappointment.

* * *

"It never came up!" Weiss was quick to answer, anger flaring again, although, unlike before, this was a reactionary, fearful anger driven by the increasing claustrophobia that had built up ever since the change in Mr. S's expression. She almost stood up after answering, herself eager to leave, but was beaten to the punch.

"You control the news!" Ruby shot up from her chair, pointing an accusatory finger at Mr. S

"...Yes." Mr. S replied, not rearing back from the finger as he searched for the easiest answers that would end this conversation quickly, anxious to move on.

"Buh, bwuh…" Ruby gestured once more, "Isn't that illegal?" she blustered out, a genuine look of worry and confusion on her face.

"...No." Mr. S replied after a moment's thought.

"But….how?" Ruby asked with a weary voice, moving closer to Mr. S and asking as if she would die without the answer, as if she were still hoping that what she saw was actually something else.

"Well….I buy a lot of advertising on the networks, so it's in their best interest to keep me happy," Mr. S answered simply, not really caring to think more about the subject, or anything else for that matter.

"Buh, buh," Ruby muttered, and, despite her softening denials and queries, she could feel something tear inside of her as the truth of the situation fit horribly together like a puzzle before her eyes. She knew, right then, that Mr. S had spoken truth, and she could feel all hope leave her at the realization.

"Yes?" Mr. S said shortly at Ruby's continual phrasals, anxious to leave and always feeling as if he were on the verge of being able to do so.

Ruby shied back at this, turning back to see the rest of her team as they, especially Weiss, could be seen in discomfort and eager to leave.

Taking a deep breath, Ruby spoke with a mortified softness as she attempted to explain herself despite her own impending desire to leave. "I guess...I guess I just didn't see how something that took so much power away from the people could be possible in a government run 'by the people', is all," she spoke with a relaxed laughter, perhaps accepting for the first time that she'd be able to cope with her new reality.

"Ruby," Weiss burst in before Mr. S could answer, "that's what _representatives_ are for," she explained in a matter of fact manner, speaking with a tonw which conveyed, "can we _leave_ now.?".

Ruby, for her part, had never realized how bad news could be made so much worse with the addition of cynicism. Of course, if the honest members of the four hundred strong Atlesian Congress had heard this, they would have been quick to dismiss such cynical outlooks and comfort the poor girl. Unfortunately, neither of them were present. Thus, it was that Ruby felt herself growing more hopeless despite having buried all her hope to extents that would intrigue Altesian stealth capabilities.

Let the reader note that: If Hell is the pain of being unable to love, then Super Hell is the unceasing awareness that, all along, you earnestly followed cable news.

* * *

Mr. S, for all his anticipation, wasn't one to leave someone in such a state.

"Hey, don't worry yourself too much about it kid," he said, resting his hand on the girl's shoulder while Qrow glared over at him, "the news is just a bunch of liars anyway."

Ruby nodded almost subconsciously at this, firmly endeavoring never to trust liars in the future.

Satisfied with his work, Mr. S stepped forward to sprint to his bed when the desk phone rang cacophonously behind him.

"Schwarz, I thought you turned that off," Mr. S paused, turning slightly to look back at the desk. Curiously, he found his hurry to leave less pressing once the prospect of actually being able to do so became possible.

"I did," Schwarz answered, "It's an emergency call, it must be the-"

"Ok, pick it up," Mr. S sighed, resolving to get this last thing over with.

"Sir, I think-"

"Just pick it up Schwarz, I don't want to waste any more time on this," Mr. S said, letting a hint of the annoyance he'd been holding back creep into his voice.

"Yes, sir," Schwarz answered, clicking a button on the phone and projecting a desk sized hologram that flickered on above the desk.

Running his eyes over the image, Mr. S could see what looked to be the end of a table with a half circle of silhouetted figures stationed around it. In the center of the image, and thus at the head of the table, sat an old man with a lazy eye and grim features.

"Jacques Schnee," The man spoke slowly and with a great sense of gravity.

"Board director Schen," Mr. S replied, reading the nameplate with a familiar tone.

"I-" Here the man paused, looking up from his papers for the first time and running his eyes out before him. With a sudden fury, a twitch of anger formed across his face before he spoke.

"Jacques Schnee," he paused, as if struggling to find words important enough for the occasion, "am I to understand that you accepted this call with _guests_!" The man all but roared, with the severest expression coloring his tone.

Mr. S, almost feeling the wind of the man's voice through the screen and noticing that the rest of the figures, though silhouetted, all shared the same look of absolute horror, realized that he'd fucked up.

Mr. S was quick to answer however, riding halfway in between his own sense as well as the sudden instinct that had come upon him to say, "Let's face it, this isn't the worst thing I've done today."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

* * *

The words came abruptly but not unexpectedly, a billowing crescendo which every preceding sentence seemed to, in some way, contribute towards. Spoken with such prefigured intent as they were, Mr. S was unsurprised when the board director, in his natural tone of self-important gravitas said, “...it is with this in mind that the board recommends you, resign your post,” finishing smoothly and with the greatest delicacy, barely hesitating when it came time to say the critical words.

Mr. S released a heavy sigh under his breath, as if having exerted himself by listening patiently to the uninterrupted monologue of justification and the most valid reasons why he, “upon review of recent conduct, was unfit to continue headship of the Schnee Dust Company and all incorporated assets.” He then paused, processing the speech, and everyone seemed to dissemble at the unnaturally long silence that followed as Mr. S stood by, fascinated by the ease with which the board director’s attention seemed to float over Mr. Schnee’s response to hand out a firing. He was being fired, he thought, disinterested...but that wasn’t it.

Perhaps it was the surreal intensity of the situation, or maybe some aspect of himself which had changed, but Mr. S felt with unusual keenness the subtler features of the words spoken to him. And, through effortless application of this sudden awareness, Mr. S noted that, in the entirety of everything which had been said, nothing more had been asked of him than his voluntary resignation. Of course, it would have been quite bold of anyone to believe that any conclusions could be drawn from this bit of evidence, but Mr. S was feeling quite brave when he said…

“Board director Schen,” gathering the attention of the room in that ever enchanting voice. “You speak quite confidently about resigning me, but it seems as if, and correct me if I’m in any way mistaken, that you _can’t_ fire me.”

Now _that_ , had gathered serious attention, and Schwarz noted the uneasy agitation that formed, Schen drawing an impassive mask as the figures surrounding him glanced furtively between him and Mr. Schnee.

Mr. S, for his part, noticed only the silence, but he wasn’t oblivious to all of its subtleties. He could tell, for instance, that this was no ordinary silence, this kind of silence, he recognized,...was dangerous, the kind of silence found shortly before the mafia boss started to laugh and immediately after the same mafia boss slammed his hand down onto his desk.

With that figured, the only mystery left to Mr. S was to find out which side of the metaphorical desk he was sitting on. He pondered on this, resolving to hold his silence until a clear prompt to action could be discovered.

Schen was the first to break the silence in the end, blinking stiffly and looking coldly out with his good eye.

“You should very well know, Company Head Schnee, that we are not within our rights to enforce a resignation as long as you maintain expected company performance metrics at the end of each quarter, and stock price is a very important metric.” This, Schen said with an exaggerated sense of obeisance even as a hint of chiding snuck into his tone..

Mr. S rushed to assure them, “The company will continue nominal growth by the end of this quar-”

“Company Head Schnee,” Schen interrupted in a manner which irked Mr. S’s senses to hear, “do not play the fool,” he said, adding with a hint of mirthfulness, “it does not suit you.

Do not forget that the board can control the stock nearly as well as you, and it would be a simple matter to ensure that the terms of your retirement are met at the end of this quarter, our _asking_ for your resignation was a considerable favor on our part, to reward your years of excellent service, a favor I hope you will accept without the need to incur such a messy affair as that,” Shen said with a bargaining tone.

“I would certainly hope the honorable director Schen would not resort to such blatant abuse of contractual powers,” Mr. S spoke, more for the purpose of drawing out a response than as an answer to the question.

“Let us not get bogged down in the formalities of your situation,” Shen spoke as if liable to forgetfulness, “the matter remains that you have overstepped your bounds as Company Head, Mr. Schnee; the contract is the method, not the reason, for your termination, and I certainly hope you will recognize our ability to enact such methods.”

“Are you certain it’s wise to enact such methods, as you say, then?” Mr. S leaned forward a touch as he spoke, and if possible the silence in the room seemed to grow even colder.

The Board director reared back, on the edge of sputtering in his indignation. “This board will enact whatever methods it sees fit to preserve the standing of the Schnee Dust Company,” he spoke softly, voice seeping with exhausted patience. “As you have made it clear that you are unwilling to cooperate to that purpose, we have no choice but to suspend your right to own any further stock in this corporation; furthermore, any exchanges you have made within the past twenty four hours are to be considered void on authority of the board of directors of the Schnee Dust Company. Have I made myself clear?”

Mr. S, quite unused to the normally subdued nature of Atleasean higher ups when they yelled at you, was oblivious to the dangerous tension that had risen between himself and the Board Director and which rose ever higher with every exchange. The rest of the board worked their hardest to keep hidden this obvious fact, everyone putting the greatest effort into masking the nervous glances and fearful postures which threatened to overtake them as, in the middle of everything, the Company Head and Board Director decided to kick off an inter-company war over video chat.

To all of this, Mr. S was blind, but he did make note of the arguments the Board Director presented for firing him and...in light of things, he was inclined to believe that the Board Director had some pretty good points. Mr. S _was_ unqualified to run this company as far as he knew, and this could be a relatively easy way out of this predicament...but some things just didn’t sit right with him.

Beyond the primordial survival instincts which drove him to avoid getting fired at any cost, there was something about the harrowing ignorance in which he seemed to be situated that unbridled that deeply buried instinct to freeze, as if he were standing on a blind precipice and every compulsion called to hug the floor until morning came.

So, in place of gracefully accepting retirement, Mr. S made it his new goal to fill the time with trivial observations until an informed decision could be made.

This, he did as a safety measure to stay away from anything important until the moment came to act. But of course, often the most vital truths are also the most trivially apparent.

Mr. S spoke at last, eager to break the long silence and in a voice that seemed to carry much meaning: “You certainly speak much on behalf of the board, director Schen,” Mr. S said, oblivious to the catastrophic expressions which drew themselves across the shadow masked faces of the board members, as well as the almost painful chill which ran through Director Schen’s bones at these words.

Schwarz leaned against the air for support and Winter held together slightly better, if only for the fact that she was still several surprise revelations behind the rest of the room and thus currently unacquainted with the theory that this was happening in the real world.

Director Schen was silent for a moment, finally responding in a calm voice, so heavily concealed with counterfeit serenity that Mr. S mistook it for the genuine article, “I...understand you must be tired. It is obvious we will not have any more productive conversation this night, so I will take my leave of you;”

“Of course,” Mr. S replied.

“have a good rest,” Director Schen continued, “I expect we will have a _very_ extensive discussion about our situation at another time.”

‘Shit,’ he thought.

“Of course,” he said, giving a nod of agreement.

Returning his nod, the board director leaned forward into the light, revealing for an instant his thin, sharply angled body as he reached forward to end the call.

Quietly and without circumstance, the hologram flickered away like a dying candle, and Mr. S was left staring into the space it formerly occupied, knowing to his every certainty that important things had been said and important things had been done through that projection. He could almost feel the important weight of that conversation as it cascaded its portentous mass through every moment and future in this world, and, at this realization, Mr. S felt that while he _could_ care less, he’d probably have to stop breathing for that to happen.

Mr. S was quick to turn around, ready, almost eager for action as, despite his ever increasing weariness and steadily evaporating morale, he found himself readying to confront the coming obstacles, obstacles he was almost certain that he would have to face. But, in the duration of time it took him to turn around, Mr. S realized that any further occupations were, essentially, optional; and upon completing his turn and facing the silent, though by no means subtle, demands for answers that came from the spread of audience before him, he stepped forward, and continued stepping forward, not pausing as he passed between the central gap of the curved group, unconsciously stepping over the leg Qrow extended in his direction and consciously ignoring the tracking gazes everyone employed as they watched the intensely interesting enigma that was Mr. Schnee, ignore them.

Nobody spoke a word at this, but the awkward silence of unresolved tension and bore of curious stares maddened him, the phantom irritation of unsettled business growing and growing with every step he took to the door, soon spiking high enough so that he, with self loathing frustration, turned back around for just long enough to ignore the still questioning looks and say: “If you have any business, feel free to schedule an appointment, I expect I’ll be open to visitors by next week at the latest.”

With that simple declaration made, he stepped out of his office, now consciously aware of himself, and turned down the long hallway, listening to the quick, increasingly nervous, strides Schwarz took as she caught up to follow alongside him.

It didn’t take him long to find a familiar section of the castle, quickly orienting himself as he planned a route through the labyrinthine passageways and expansive ceilings he’d come to familiarize himself with over the morning.

Thinking it over for half a second and deciding that he wanted to avoid back-tracking past his office, Mr. S made a sharp right and headed for the elevators. He was going to bed.

* * *

For the second time, as he stood listening to the droning music of the elevator car, Mr. S felt quite curious about the fact that, with his destination so near and sweet sleep so fulsome in its attainability...all of his exhaustion seemed to leave him. It wasn’t a wakefulness that he felt, exactly, but rather a calm equilibrium that mixed into his body and numbed him to everything, even his tiredness.

The world faded away into an extended blink until he forced his eyes back open once more and reasserted his balance against the disorienting, cushion like, lightness which came with the slowing of the car.

The bell dinged and the doors slid smoothly apart. Heavenly, was the feeling which came over Mr. S as he drank in the slowly expanding view beyond the stainless doors. The white wall beyond almost seemed to shine through the narrow gap between the doors, and this was enough to make Mr. S feel as if he were a convict seeing the bars open for the last time. To many, the sight would have just been a sliver of wall, but to Mr. S, it was a sight of _the_ wall: the wall which made up the hallway, that led to the door, which lead to the bedroom, that contained the bed that he was far too ready to collapse into. All of this flashed through Mr. S’s mind in a dreamlike second, only to be brought crashing down in the next.

Schng!

The elevator thunked with a minor, unremarkable sounding note that belied its own, very sinister consequences. For, in the instant Mr. S recognized the sound, the elevator doors froze in their movement.

* * *

The most difficult part of doing nothing was the sudden and completely overwhelming need to look like you were doing _something_.

The maid in the brown custodial dress, engaged as she was with stacking the abandoned chairs, did not have this problem. Ruby tried not to whistle as she looked off into a distant corner and twiddled her thumbs. Ruby felt a sudden urge to run out of the room like everyone else had done, but then realized she’d just be lost in a castle with nothing to do, she shook her head at this: best to stay here and wait for Weiss, she thought.

“So…” Ruby directed this remark at Yang, who leaned inquisitively over the office desk, and tried to look like she was in the process of stealing company assets or planning a heist, anything other than the nothing which currently occupied her.

“So…” Yang replied, scrunching her brows in appraisal as she ran her eyes blankly over the lacquered wood-lines of the desktop below.

“What the fuck?” Ruby said uncharacteristically and with exasperated breath, commenting on the situation.

“Language!” Yang roared, turning away from the desk to face Ruby, joined in her admonitions by the working custodial maid and managing to startle Blake into awareness.

“Well, what did you _want_ me to say?” Ruby asked, feeling suddenly very attacked.

“I don’t know? ‘What the heck?’ or something? Anything other than dropping an F bomb!” Yang ran a hand through her curls of hair.

“But nothing else makes sense to say!” Ruby pleaded, continuing, “besides, weren’t you saying worse when you were my age?” with a skeptical look on her face.

Blake, meanwhile, looked hurriedly around herself.

“Look,” Yang appealed tiredly, “you’re you, and I’m me,” she said with a natural shrug. “And you can’t just go and break character like that Rubes; even Weiss managed to keep it together for the most part!”

Ruby took on a regretful look, but, before she could answer, Blake’s panicked voice interrupted.

“Where’s Weiss!”

* * *

Weiss, was not having a good day. If the scowl adorned on her expression failed to make this clear, the murderous way she stalked the hallways certainly did.

If anyone she didn’t trust, like her maid, or her therapist, or her subconscious, had at that moment asked her: “why are you so angry?” Weiss did not believe that she would have answered with the truth. Not that she had any sights on such conversation in the first place.

As she wandered the winding hallways of Schnee Manor, however, and as she took slow, familiar steps through long familiar places, her mind couldn’t help but wander to the subject.

That, as she looked up into the high distance, where the staircase seemed to blend into the white marble of the castle walls, she couldn’t help stating, almost cursing, the obvious. That, no matter the delay, eventually...

She would have to go see her father.

* * *

“Don’t worry sir, I’m sure it’s just a mechanical malfunction of some sort, the backup systems should come online any moment,” Schwaz said tensely, feeling, somehow, less confident saying that now than she had the last time.

“Ah, there it is!” Schwarz said at last, drawing Mr. S’s attention to the soft, though steadily strengthening, green light which now filled the room as the doors began to, ever so slowly, open once more. A computerized voice spoke with a gentle, womanly sound…

“Operational error detected, subsystem one engaged, please exit the elevator car; be mindful of other people’s luggage. In case of fire, use operational elevator. In case of-”

Here, the voice stopped, and doors stopped with it, and Mr. S’s heart stopped with them.

“Oh, don’t worry about that, sir,” Schwarz rushed to assure, careful to keep overt embarrassment from coloring her voice, “the system has many more backups in place.”

Mr. S began, “Well,-”

“Well, well, well, well, well,” another voice interrupted, sounding through the small gap of doors in its familiar gravel. “What bad luck you seem to be having these days,” the voice continued in its knowing tone, accompanied by a sudden blotting out of the light as a cloaked form paced in front of the opening.

“Qrow,” Mr. S said, surprising himself with how composed and calm he sounded, feeling as if he were talking outside himself with how the sound seemed to play inside the metal compartment of the elevator car. “You did this, I assume?”

Mr. S, in his exhausted capacity to keep a coherent train of thought, didn’t pay too much heed to his own words, captivated more by the unsolicited realization that he’d never spoken full volume in an elevator car before...strange that he’d waited until he was off planet to realize that potential.

“You can assume a lotta things,” Qrow languidly strode back and forth in front of the elevator car, his passing shadow blinking over the streaming external lights.

“Operational error detected, subsystem two enga-” the computerized voice faded once more, the doors seeming to jiggle in place.

Qrow, despite his silence, seemed to show a bit of a spring in his step at this.

“What did you do, Qrow?” Mr. S asked, struggling to contain his annoyance at the man, helped by the growing exhaustion, which somehow precluded the effort.

“Nothing provable, Jack, just came to talk,” Qrow said, leaving Schwarz tense and convincing Mr. S -- in the span of two seconds -- that he’d never hated anyone as much as he hated Qrow at this moment.

“What about?” Mr. S replied genially.

“The Fall Maiden,” Qrow said -- serious, if not for the alcohol induced slur which targeted his speech.

Mr. S thought for a moment, reverting to full wakefulness for just long enough to faithfully express the ever more grand hatred he managed to conceive -- fully and completely -- from the idea that this, thirty-something, homeless, failed devil-may-cry cosplayer, who both looked and smelled like he’d forgotten that sullen alcoholism ceased to be a personality trait in the seventies, just decided, after an evening of making smart-ass comments, _Just Decided_ him in an elevator, so that they could discuss the off-planet equivalent of a freaking pumpkin festival!

Mr. S, despite his own experience with townies, as well as the sham of his current status, felt his hands shake with effort as he barely stopped himself from throwing them up and yelling, with as much disdain as he could muster, the ever more appropriate sounding, “Do you even **_know_** who I _am_?”

In all honesty, Mr. S didn’t really feel any true inclination to do something like that, he rarely snapped, and even then only privately. So he decided that he would take pity on the poor drunk, answering, “I’ve given much thought to the matter, and I’ll be sure to let you know once I come to a conclusion. As it stands, however,” Mr. S chuffed in a good humored fashion, as if desiring to lighten the mood of a dreadfully serious subject, “well, there isn't much that can be done about it at this moment, is there?”

“Hm,” Qrow grunted noncommittally, leaning back against the wall to the side of the elevator.

“Now, I’m quite tired and I have a long day tomorrow, so if you would…” Mr. S trailed the sentence to a close, waiting in the baited silence of the elevator, feeling himself struggle to hold back several yawns. At last, the elevator lights flicked on with abrupt energy, and a wonderful ring cheered through the air as the doors parted.

Mr. S squeezed past the still opening doors, desperate to leave the claustrophobic entrapment, and hounded on by fears that the doors might freeze once more.

Looking to the left and right of the hallway, he could see he was alone save Schwarz, and his tired swirl of thoughts were eager to forget Qrow, content to bask in the coming restfulness.

Heading up a half step of stairs, he eagerly pressed his thumb to the thumb pad and pushed through the fortress doors before they’d finished opening. Schwarz followed silently behind as they headed into the carpeted floors and exceptionally well lit hallways of the private level. Mr. S felt a nervous shiver run up his back at this. Every step on the lush velvet brought him closer to bed, and his real excitement seemed to grow, reaching a fervent peak as a glimpse of brown doors peeked ahead.

“Ah, Mr. Schnee, so nice to see you!” Ozpin said, standing expectantly in front of those very doors -- Glynda stood closely by his side.

Mr. S felt his eyes flash over to the awaiting pair. Looking at their faces, he could immediately tell they had questions, and wouldn’t be leaving until those questions were answered.

Pausing, Mr. S glanced longingly back over to those doors which had become so unreachable. As he looked at the sight, almost frozen in time, Mr. S was certain, truly and deeply down into his soul, that if this wasn’t the feeling which struck Moses on mount Nebo, then he must’ve been beholding the rough side of the residential district of the promised land.

Forcing his focus away from the doors, Mr. S smiled back at the distant figures, greeting, “and you as well, Professor Ozpin!”

Silently, he turned aside and whispered from the side of his mouth, “How did they get _in_ here!”

“Well,” Schwarz chuckled, “Professor Ozpin is one of the only three people outside of the Schnee family with access to this level, sir!” almost playfully admonishing in her tone.

“Of course,” Mr. S ground out, deciding not to kick them out.

As they approached, Ozpin stepped forward a half step, drawing a hand, palm up, close to his body in a smooth flowing motion. “I appreciate you must be tired,” he started, seeming to move forward without any effort, “but, may we speak?”

“May we not?” Mr. S replied in a clear, almost desperately hopeful, tone, himself easily mimicking the gestured body movements in mid-stride.

“Sir!?” Schwarz’s indignant tone shocked Mr. S into a partial wakefulness. And, even through the haze, he could easily feel the unsaid words: “Show some respect!”

Looking back at Schwarz, he saw the panicked features flickering expressfully through her sensitively shining eyes and quickly turned back, unable to bare the look coming from someone who ostensibly trusted him.

On turning back, he saw Ozpin chuckling good humouredly while Glynda scowled humorlessly beside him.

“Comedy doesn’t suit you, Mr. Schnee,” Glynda clipped out in a brittle tone, eyes flashing as if she were holding back something more that she wanted to say.

“Perhaps so,” Mr. S agreed, nodding a respectful bow in her direction as he came close enough to halt. A resilient, new mask of wakefulness hardened over him, as he gazed at the two and resolved to see this last thing through.

A sudden pang of guilt flared through him at quickly he’d allowed his exhaustion to get the better of him. He was still dealing with important matters, after all, and they wouldn’t stop being important just because it was two a.m. or because he let the idea that he was on a different world ease him into acting like a fool.

Looking directly at the pair, he determined to pay full attention to their issue, and he resolved further to look out for dramatic slip ups like that in the future, he’d made far too many this evening as it was…

Focusing back on the issue at hand, Mr. S indicated that he was ready.

‘They won’t take too long,’ he told himself convincingly. ‘The most urgent messages are the shortest, after all. Besides, this Ozpin guy has an “adult in the room” feel.’

As it was, Mr. S felt his attention called for once more as Ozpin finished his polite bout of laughter. “Perhaps you are more tired than I appreciated,” he said with an almost jovial tone, “although, I imagine I should have guessed, seeing the day we have all had.”

“Of course,” Mr. S threw back, equally gregarious.

“Well, despite that, there still remains work to be done, and there are certain matters I would appreciate if you would step in on my behalf,” Ozpin said with an almost shocking seriousness that nearly mesmerized Mr. S fully out of his weariness, as if the past several seconds of lighthearted laughter had been a story.

“What is it?” Mr. S said, needing no effort to sound invested, almost leaning forward in curiosity at the dreadfully serious expression that came over Ozpin's face, as if the man were still mulling over the matter which still troubled him, as if he had left the critical decision to be made up to this moment.

“Well,” Ozpin sighed, looking almost indecisive for all the tumultuous gravity his tone bore, “there are two issues, really. One is a rather minor matter and, officially, it’s why I’ve come to visit you, but the other…”

“But the other?” Mr. S parroted, feeling almost parched as he spoke, tentative.

“The other isn’t something to be announced outside of this room -- not before its time, in any case,” Ozpin said simply, but sparing Mr. S none of the impact the words could hold.

“Naturally, we ought to discuss that first, then,” Mr. S urged, now unquestionably eager for the information, more curious about this than he had been about anything in his life.

“It's,” Ozpin hesitated a moment, sending frantic paroxysms surging through Mr. S as he feared that Ozpin would change his mind at that.

For what seemed ages, Mr. S held the silence, almost afraid to speak lest he drive Ozpin, who still and truly seemed on the brink of indecision, into holding his own silence.

Finally, Ozpin spoke, saying…

“It’s about the Fall Maiden.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

* * *

Weiss felt another wave of epileptic, monochrome sparkles swim across her vision. She’d felt tired, morally and physically, a hollow feeling consorting her makeup as she faced the upcoming event with surprisingly little feeling, all emotion overshadowed heavily by the swirling tiredness and painful flashes of illusory light.

Was this how people felt before they had a nervous breakdown? She diagnosed absently, mulling on the thought for a moment before discarding it.

She wasn’t sure.

She was certain, however, of the increasingly overwhelming exhaustion which overcame her. She was certainly the most tired person in at least the entire building, Weiss thought confidently and also wrongly.

Traversing the outer curve of the tightly curled staircase, Weiss felt a cold shiver at the sight of the frozen courtyard, the dusky, moonlit scene framed beautifully by the gleaming fern reliefs which seemed to curl around the golden window-lattice.

As seemed to be tradition at this point, Weiss deftly avoided the sight, turning her eyes quietly away from the towering glass and hurrying past. It had been easy, in the heated confrontation of that overcrowded office, for her to ignore the inevitable future. She’d never deluded herself into thinking it could come to anything other than this, but she had, with the irresolute confidence that avoiding thought could provide, dared to hope that, somehow, it wouldn’t come to this. The unexamined future was often kinder than the approaching reality, however, and, fully convinced at this point that the world wouldn’t be ending in any convenient time frame, Weiss marched on. Following the spiraling steps upward she walked around in another half circle, watching the final window come into view from around the sharply curving horizon of marble which made up the wall.

Distracted as she was by the thoughts of what awaited her just beyond the horizon, the cold steel doors and lonely halls, Weiss forgot to look away on her unusually slow traversal past the final window and glimpsed, for a moment, her reflection as it overlay the snow covered gardens outside, ghostly in the streaming moonlight. Weiss couldn’t help her glare as she unconsciously paused her step, looking out at the internal courtyard; the purported freedom of the walled space sickened her as much as the perpetually locked windows which graced every wall. Weiss eventually found the strength to move past, her mind focused, rather than distracted, by the tumult of emotions that accompanied the sight. She walked with excruciating slowness up the last of the steps, the majority of her attention occupied by the blatant hypocrisies which she’d lived through obliviously and which now demanded her attention seemingly with every turn of her head.

Weiss paused as soon as the barest edge of the window slipped past her vision, looking forward and moving so slowly that she might have fooled an inattentive glance into thinking her a statue. The window, which now stood only inches from her back, seemed as distant from her thoughts as if she’d left it behind in a far-away land. Her thoughts, following her view, lay with the doors which she knew stood just around the curving marble that hugged close the space before her. Shaking her head, she once again moved languidly onward, all the while ranting out against every slight against her existence which every aspect of the palace seemed to represent.

Much as it gladdened her to think aloud the things which she could never speak aloud, the thoughts engendered dangerous associations, and she hurried forward as uncomfortable questions arose and unwanted answers seemed anxious to escape her.

As she moved forward, and more white bricks rotated into view, Weiss found, under the high-strung intensity of inquiries which suddenly sprung up, about why she was angry and why she was going to her father of all people, Weiss found that she was almost looking forward to seeing those steel doors; she could almost imagine them as if they were already before her, like colossal guards with expressionless fronts. Weiss breathed a sigh of repose, feeling herself bracing in preparation for the sight, and with her bracing all the complicated thoughts evaporated away.

Weiss stepped around, following the receding curve of the bare wall and coming face to face with...another window.

That couldn’t have been right. Weiss turned around, looking down behind her as if any answers would be there. Had she mis-counted? What?

Weiss stepped forward, past the new window, this time too distracted to care about the sight beyond the heightening attrition that ground at her as she passed it. Putting the matter quickly behind her, Weiss stepped forward, rounding the forward curve and coming to face with...yet another window, identical to the one before.

Against her own admission, Weiss could feel the anomaly was affecting her more than it rationally should have, and this brought on a haunting self-analysis as she thought deeply, chiding herself for the almost embarrassing ease with which her mind fashioned the most fanciful explanations for the anomaly, as well as the even more embarrassing difficulty she faced trying to disarticulate herself of such notions. Fantastic Tales sprung wildly through her imagination, and slowly, distant whimsy turned abruptly into unnatural dread.

She’d just miscounted, she repeated to herself, fatalistic exhaustion doing nothing to obscure her lack of confidence in the statement as she stepped forward, uncaring as she passed the window.

Her steps felt heavy and leadened, limbs fashioned slowly, as if pressing against some odd resistance as an existential terror overtook her, the slowly unraveling curve seeming always to hide the unconscionable horrors her mind involuntarily threw upon itself, as if survival demanded it.

After the conclusion to the great war, a rapid modernization effort washed out across remnant with the newly formed city of Atlas at its center. With this, there also came a rapid dissolution of superstition and folk-lore, well, ostensibly, there was, in any case. For, while most of remnant succeeded in stamping out the primitive talismans and unseasonable convictions of the old world, they only did so with the overt rejection and self abashed concealment of what had once been daily affairs. Atlas, riding the leading edge of this wave, were the quickest to enact this front, upending a thousand years of tradition with blistering reformation. As a result, Atlesians were both the most and least superstitious people of remnant, for while the daily rituals and affronts of the folk was all but erased, it is a fact of human nature that a person can not actively tear themselves away from a belief without handing over to it their total heed and consciousness. Most people would live their lives never having to face the ramifications of such a thing, but perhaps once or twice in a generation, an Atlesian might, sufficiently overwrought with the emotions of fate, face something quite similar to those things that the grown ups, and the politicians, and the authority figures, along with everyone else had denounced with a strangely, to a young child's eyes, over emphatic demeanor. How could anyone put such effort into denying what they said were just stories after all?

It was enough to make one suspicious, and, as of now, a very superstitious feeling came over Weiss as she stared, wide eyed and frozen at the curling wall ahead of her, feet stiff as an alien atmosphere descended to displace her tiredness. Memories crawled back of the uncounted nights where she’d been told the story of Treppewittchen, the girl cursed to wander the same corridor for all of eternity because she’d lied, most grievously, to herself. It seemed delusory, head whirling as if she could remember every word of every instance at which her grandmother had, with deeply knowing eyes and the most secretive reverence, told the story to her, told her of the eternally similar corridors, and the hauntingly distant noises that serenade the girl to this day.

“This is stupid,” Weiss wanted to say as she moved up one step and more white bricks came into view beyond the stone horizon. ‘This is stupid,’ she thought, again, very quietly as she ascended yet another step, standing with both feet as she ground her teeth, cursing her silence as she tried to find the will to deny her fears, daring herself to say the words aloud as proof against the anxious terrors that hounded her. Grinding her teeth yet harder, she froze in place, battling with herself for such a time that the bright bricks of the wall seemed to imprint themselves onto her locked eyes.

Daring a glance backwards, Weiss could see the barest edge of the last window behind her. Focusing her eyes, she saw that, from here she could see only the sterile bricks of the opposite wall through the sliver of glass which presented itself to her. Here she indignantly forced down a jump of her heart. She was just unable to see the rest of the garden, she told herself surely. All she would have to do would be to take one step down, and she’d be able to see enough of the window to see the snow dusted plants, plants that wouldn’t be there in an eternal corridor, where everything would be made of stone, after al-

Here Weiss interrupted herself with a violent flare of anger. ‘This is stupid,’ she thought fiercely enough to ignore the fact that she still wasn’t saying it out loud. She would not be taking a single step down to confirm something so stupid! She declared with certainty. Clenching her fists and taking stiff steps, she once more ascended the stairs with brittle confidence. In the instant between her initial steps, she thought of many things, but, deep in her mind, an admission prepared itself, perhaps as a token admission of truth that would get her out of here.

Weiss took a step and focused her eyes on the steps before her, chanting with her every footfall: This is stupid, of course there isn’t going to be another window, and even if there is I just miscounted, that’s all!

Here, Weiss could, with unreasonable certainty, feel that she was just on the edge of making that critical turn and finding out the truth. Blundering herself past trepidation and freezing, Weiss chanted, unheard, even by herself, and with short, huffing breaths.

It’s not going to be another window, I obviously just miscounted.

It’s not going to be another window, I obviously just miscounted.

It’s not going to be another window, I obviously just miscounted.

It’s not going to be another window, I obviously just miscounted.

It’s not going to be another window. I am going to turn the corner and see those stupid doors standing there like they always do.

And, why not, she was right.

Weiss was almost more surprised at the sight than she would have been at seeing another window. Frazzled and harried as she was, she couldn’t even muster, or perhaps comprehend, any emotional response to the situation. As it was, she couldn’t even manage to even play pretend, to say that she’d known all along that the obvious would happen and that she was never afraid of anything at all. The truth was, she had been afraid, as afraid as she’d been of anything in her life. And, like many people who were tired and scared, she found it very easy to let the truth embrace her. And, unfortunate as it may have seemed, the truth was exactly what her mind had prepared on this occasion. In the now fading terror of her supernatural episode, Weiss remembered with distinct clarity the moments just before she made that final turn, when she, in some faithful attempt to combat her fears, had piled together the various truths she’d hidden and effaced, readying, as if, to admit them in the face of damnation. And, as things turned, and she came to face with the doors, she felt herself collapsing under the weight of those truths, catching herself on the top step as she fell onto her hands and looked out at the sight before her.

Filtered light shone onto her from all the gleaming surfaces of the silent level, and the imposing doorways of steel glared out at her like the gates of hell. Somehow, Weiss felt a distinct longing for the eternal corridors she’d just been faced with.

The sight seemed to have a muted tone to it, however. She’d expected to feel something on seeing her father’s doorway, but she didn’t, not like she’d deluded herself into thinking she would, anyway. It was true, she was angry at him, and rightly so, but, right now, unable to blind herself to it, the truth revealed itself to her peeling away with increasingly intense revelations.

She realized fully the unbearable guilt she bore when Blake’s expression fell and fell throughout the day. She realized the bile of self loathing she’d tried to ignore when she realized just how much she’d destroyed her Blake’s chance at any sort of happy life. They’d been together for months by this point, they’d sacrificed so, so much, and she’d gambled everything for, for this. They should have been happily away from here by now, unashamed of being together, yet here she lay. Blake’s white fang membership had been revealed, they’d hurt the SDC in ways she couldn’t imagine could be fixed, she’d drawn attention to herself and Blake moments before doing so, and now...now she was here, in the middle of Atlas and carrying the responsibility of Blake’s White Fang membership. Perhaps, in another time, she could have rented a room in the lower city with her faunus and decidedly not internationally recognized as a former White Fang member, girlfriend. Yet, here she was...she would have to...

A panicked frenzy of every emotion ran through her at this. She thought that she’d been calm, that she understood what she was doing, but now she realized she’d been lying to herself. That, the thing which she had thought was composure had been nothing more than fading shock. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t find the ability, she wanted to run but couldn’t find it in her to do so.

With the unbidden truth open before her, Weiss understood, finally understood, that she’d known all along why she was coming here, perhaps she had known it in the instant Blake’s White Fang associations had been revealed. No body in Atlas would let them stay the night, absolutely nobody. A cavalcade of riots would appear around Schnee manor before the end of the night, and they’d be a lot closer if she and Blake were outside the manor walls when they happened.

Part of her, a disturbingly large part, had a great desire to be there when those riots happened. She had nothing to fear from some crowds, and they’d take her mind off her father, in any case…

But, Blake: The statement seemed to come as if in answer and justification for all her doubts. She saw how much she’d been hurt today, and she knew how much such a scene could just harm her, hurt her worse than anything. She knew Blake would expect the people, the faunus at least, to understand and take them in…

She shook her head and faced the facts. Another confusing tumult of emotions battering her as she acknowledged that she would have to...see her father, and beg him to let them stay in the castle.

Hah, she cried bitterly with a wavering voice. She’d started the night excited for her awaiting freedom, and readying to cut her final ties with this place, and him. Yet, here she was, all but crawling to his door to ask him to let them stay.

The situation was very clear to Weiss now, and as she wrestled with it, another truth became apparent to her, not particularly obvious, yet at the same time undeniably true, a concluding realization which seemed to cap the tumult of truths that whirled around her head, conglomerating those truths as if to succinctly express their ultimate meaning.

It was with these realizations whirling, and mind whirring, combining all the facets of her situation in coldly logical fashion, that it soon became clear to her: She’d fucked up.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14 (Remastered)**

* * *

"Ah, but there’s always unfinished business, these days, isn’t there?" Ozpin commented with fading casualty, continuing, "and, it’s a rather important bit of business that’s brought me to you today," transitioning so abruptly into resolute sincerity, that it almost mesmerized Mr. S fully out of his weariness, leaving the recent, light-hearted memory of their laughter together feeling altogether distant, and phantasmal.

"What is it?" asked Mr. S, needing no effort to sound invested.

"Well," Ozpin sighed with a resigned air, seeming almost indecisive for all the tumultuous gravity his tone bore, "there are two issues. Really, one is a rather minor matter and, officially, it's why I've come to visit you, but the other…"

"But the other?" Mr. S parroted, feeling almost parched as he spoke, tentative.

"The other isn't something to be spoken of outside of this room, not before its time in any case," Ozpin said simply, but sparing Mr. S none of the impact the words could hold.

"Naturally, that should come first, then," Mr. S urged, now unquestioningly eager for the information.

"It’s," Ozpin hesitated a moment, sending frantic paroxysms surging through Mr. S, striking a fear that Ozpin would change his mind, and keep his secret, at that.

For what seemed ages, Mr. S held his silence, afraid even to speak lest he drive Ozpin, who still and truly seemed on the brink of indicition, into holding his own.

Ozpin, either oblivious or uncaring about Mr. S’s anxieties, held still with an intensely thoughtful air, as a man might when attempting to navigate a perilous topic and dreadfully aware of the complete loss even a single misstep or word could represent.

Finally, however, as if testament to the ineluctable necessity of the subject, Ozpin spoke, saying…

"It's about the Fall Maiden."

* * *

Schwarz stood quiet and with perfect ease at the back of Mr. Schnee, unmoving except for the rhythmic squeeze of her fists around the edges of the tablet, the sole outward change which stood, lonely, as evidence of the sudden discomfiture that had taken residence in the hallway.

As people always did when they broached sensitive topics, Ozpin ducked quiet in the resulting pause; Glynda, standing beside him, seemed to quite unintentionally act as his foil, every aspect of her posture advertising, loudly, the great discipline she’d mustered in order keep herself from saying out loud those choice words which she was now attempting to express solely through the glares she directed at Mr. S.

Mr. S held his own silence and maintained his own, softer, glare which seemed to be directed at nothing in particular. None of this was done in challenge, but was rather the sole, outward expression of his immense, and by this point resigned, disappointment.

He’d been certain his opinion of these people had bottomed out when they’d trapped him in an elevator, but apparently there were hot springs at rock bottom, with mineral baths capable of curing even the worst case of optimism or hope for humanity.

When the silence extended, and the critical moment came to pass, however, Mr. S merely replied, with strained courtesy, “What about the Fall Maiden?”

In response to his question, Ozpin responded only with a knowing looked which seemed to say, with the kindest expression he could muster, that they _both_ knew what this was all about, and it would be easier for everyone involved if they simply cut to the heart of the matter.

Mr. S felt his expression grow colder, and his tone more brittle at this turn, as he asked, with all the bewildered honesty of those too tired to lie, “did you… expect me to choose who the next one is going to be?” expressing in that statement the patent impossibility he saw in their having come to him over such a matter.

“Oh, we wouldn’t ask you to do that,” Ozpin said, quick to recall the previous atmosphere of levity as he chuckled, trailing to a pause and waiting for a beat. Once again banking, expressfully, on the all too obvious nature of request he was asking of Mr. Schnee.

The soft silence once again turned solid and imposing, and once again, it became clear that Mr. S wouldn’t be cooperating. Ozpin expressed a somber sigh, hiding expertly the face of a man who didn’t want to say his request aloud, as if doing so might highlight the impossibility of it.

“The Fall Maiden,” he paused, thinking carefully over his words, “is in quite a precarious situation at the moment, as you well know, and there’s no better place for her to be than at Schnee Manor. We request that you allow her to stay here until things can be sorted out at Beacon,” relapsing instinctively into that vestigial formality he often forewent in the company of those he’d grown close to.

“Oh, is that all?” Mr. S said aloud, surprised, not unpleasantly, that they hadn’t asked him to bribe some judges or otherwise donate money to a good cause.

Of course, to the ears of those who knew Mr. Schnee’s opinions, and who, for some reason, expected the man before them to be familiar with Mr. Schnee’s opinions, that statement was nothing other than the absurd peak of sarchasm.

Glynda’s expression only grew more aggressive at the barb, and Ozpin, for his part, only maintained that stony expression which he’d prepared to face just this sort of response.

“Yes,” Ozpin replied curtly, not willing to show his disappointment, “that’s all.”.

Mr. S paused for the requisite five seconds of consideration such important an important matter required, taking the moment to count out five seconds inside his head as he readied to spit out the answer which, by his calculations, would get them to leave sooner.

During this interval of fake consideration, Schwarz, torn between the apologetic looks she rushed to express to each side of the argument, fell back with a hopeless look, wishing to forge an instant reconciliation, but all too aware that the subject had moved far beyond that the moment Ozpin spoke of the Fall Maiden.

Glynda, in contrast, merely deepend her glare, sharp eyes glancing aside at a hidden moment to meet with Ozpin’s own, expressing quietly the resolve which they knew wouldn’t let them leave with a “no” answer.

“Of course,” Mr. S said lightly, tone soft and having come down considerably from that earlier hardness which overtook it, a testament to the great difficulty which Mr. S faced in attempting to maintain his anger.

“I understand how much I’m asking of you,” Ozpin began, bargaining with the tone of a man who understood how much he was asking of someone... and then Ozpin stopped, brows scrunched as the answer registered.

Glynda, for her part, was more confused, at first, by the fact that Ozpin failed to finish his prompt, which would have signaled for her to play “Bad Cop”, as Qrow had termed it in their planning discussions, and only then by the fact that “Mr. Schnee” had given the wrong answer!

Schwarz, by this point, having made up her mind that she would try to convince Mr. Schnee to help them, looked up at Mr. S with a confused expression that did nothing to mar the delight and awe which expressed itself in her at the undeniable empathy shown by her boss that day.

Ozpin didn't get to where he was by fumbling through opportunities, however, and was quick on the recovery. "I'm glad to see we can still count on the Schnee family, Jacquez," he spoke, in a personal and deeply friendly way which seemed to all but shine through his eyes.

"Always," Mr. S smiled back.

Ozpin, turning his palm inwards as a sign of departure, bowed slightly as he spoke, "well, I'm sure we've kept you long enough," he began.

Mr. S matched the motion, thinking, 'ya think!'

"We'll be on our way," Ozpin announced, and Mr. S, once again aware of the ever deepening, sickening exhaustion that wound through his mind, never imagined that those words could sound so sweet.

* * *

Mr. S was aware, of course, that whatever it was he'd just agreed to was likely to be something he'd regret, but, luckily for him, he'd gotten quite used to regretting things at this point, and future Mr. S, who's problem this was going to be, was likely to be even better at it thanks to recent events!

Mr. S consoled himself with these thoughts as he walked them back to the doors. Ozpin and Glynda walked in unison to his left, keeping pace while, on his right, Schwarz trailed slightly behind, working furiously at her tablet.

"...of course, we can discuss the details at another time,” Ozpin continued, “I still have that other matter I would like to speak to you about, so perhaps then, if you can fit us into your schedule." Ozpin said, talking languidly and walking languidly as he turned an attentive glance towards Mr. S.

"I've already worked it in," Schwarz responded, not looking up from the tablet as she scrunched her eyes in concentration, light gleaming brilliantly off her snow white skin as the screen reflected prominently in her charcoal eyes.

"Efficient as always, I see," Ozpin nodded in acknowledgement, stepping smoothly through the moving doorways and facing back slightly to where Mr. S stopped at the boundary, departing with the words: "Another time, then."

“See you,” Mr. S returned with a gesture, spotting a final glimpse of their retreating forms as they rounded the corner before turning back to Schwarz with a tired sigh, just in time to see her stowing away the tablet.

"Well, sir, that just about finishes our day," Schwarz said, an expectant energy in her voice, "and just on schedule too!" smiling in a way that expressed, all by itself, that she’d been trying to tell a joke. Schwarz did not fail to draw an appreciative smile from Mr. S in turn, if not for her comedic flare, then perhaps solely for the fact that she didn’t lock him inside an elevator today.

"That’s good to hear,” Mr. S replied, breathing in a suddenly relieved sort of way with the departure of what were, by his current estimation, his second and third greatest enemies following Qrow. Tired as he was, however, he was only half successful in preventing that relieved sigh from becoming a tired yawn, moving a hand up to cover his mouth before once again blinking forcefully to draw the lethargy from his eyes.

"Oh, you must be tired!" Schwarz exclaimed, almost bashful at having kept him so long, "I'll, leave you, then. See you tomorrow! Goodnight!" Schwarz cried, almost dashing to the wide, five-flight of stairs, barely giving Mr. S enough time to respond, warmly:

"Goodnight, Schwarz!"

* * *

Mr. S reached the wooden door in a daze, having walked the carpeted path from the metal doors with a zombie like stride and empty gaze, as if in attempt to induce sleepwalking. Alas, much to his regret, he was still very much awake when he reached the bedroom doors, extensively aware, through the haze of consciousness, of every particle of time his hand seemed to pass through as it reached for the embroidered door knob.

When his hand reached the critical point, the distorted reflections of his fingers moving in the brilliant gold of the knob, Mr. S was so tired and so sufficiently mesmerized by the sight that, for a perverse moment, he imagined that he could be _interrupted_ now; that, after everything, with literal inches between him and the bedroom entrance, it could all be torn away from him…

It seemed impossible for this to happen in any sane universe. The idea just felt wrong to Mr. S on a spiritual level, as if there were some rule of morality or fairness protecting him from further interruption now that he'd reached this point. But maybe…

Mr. S was piqued for a flashing instant by this idea, so firmly, for that instant, did the horror of it take grip of him that he, at first, thought that he was imagining the rain of knocks coming from the metal doors.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

* * *

**Bang, Bang, Bang, Bang, Bang!**

It at first amazed and delighted Mr. S when he discovered, so gradual and unnoticed had been the pace of his discovery, that there was a full and complete language to knocks.

And it wasn't a crude, utilitarian dialect of patterned noise and logical sequence like JavaScript or German, either, but instead a full and complete language of great artistry and boundless potential, with as much rhythm and cadence as could be found in any poem or asteroid impact.

After having bought his house, Mr. S learned quickly how to decipher these messages hidden in the knocks, over the years developing a sensitive ear to their subtleties. Eventually, he found he could sift the intended meaning from almost any knock, ranging from “Trick or Treat,” to “Girl Scouts!” to even “Have you accepted Jesus as your lord and savior?”

And it was through this common exchange that Mr. S realized: weather it was your candy, or your money, or your soul, nobody ever knocked at your door unless they wanted something from you.

And, despite currently being on a completely different world, outfitted with an entirely alien vernacular of knocks, he could still recognize the current intent of the impacts coming from the metal doors, ones which, on earth, would roughly have translated to: **Police! Open Up!**

**Bang, Bang, Bang, Bang, Bang!**

The impacts were like those of a sledgehammer against anvil, producing an unnaturally loud flash of thunderous noise which seemed barely able to fit it’s great bulk into the hallway.

**Bang, Bang, Bang, Bang Bang!**

As Mr. S approached closer to the unnaturally static metal of the doors, he found himself surprised by how much louder the knocks, and, in proportion, his anger, seemed to grow with the proximity.

Although, it must be noted that Mr. S was not truly angry about the interruption to his sleep, but rather about the interruption itself, annoyed in a metaphysical way as the nature of interruption, which, like those of any concept, was fully dependent upon-

**Bang, Bang, Bang, Bang, Bang!**

His eyes fluttered shut with every knock now. Each pail of noise hammered into his eardrums like an iron spike, triggering incessantly that instinctive defense mechanism.

Beyond this animal flinching, however, the higher portions of his personality were still buzzing with purpose, and, driven forward by the urgency of the moment, stumbled fortuitously upon an old memory, one which, at the moment, he took to be nothing more than random trivial about the working structure of the Japanese language, but, when applied to this very situation-

**Bang, Bang, Bang, Bang, Bang!**

Mr. S cursed venomously under his breath and rushed forward with hard steps against the oncoming cacophony, finding his rage preserved in the noise even as his thoughts fled.

Falling gradually faster, Mr. S had broken into a slow run by the time he traced the final few steps, desperate to reach the doors before the next set of knocks could come, ears ringing tenderly inside his skull.

Nerves rising with his proximity to the seemingly lurking, and absolutely temporary, silence, Mr. S set to work with frenetic pace.

Gripping one of the over sized handles, Mr. S wrenched his arm backwards, pulling violently at the structure.

The door, a thick, metal affair which, by itself, guarded half of the eleven foot high entrance, he found did not need to be unlocked from the inside and, with whirring motors, swung smoothly open to the guiding motions of his hand.

Mr. S, feeling intensely the painfully slow passage of time his exhausted perspective existed in, did not wait for the door.

Weaving nimbly past the hulking iron slab, forged into the opening, tuning down his, by then, wrathful charachicheture of an angry expression and replacing it, instead, with a finely constructed facade of controlled disdain.

Looking, first, out at the distant stairway, Mr. S turned his head down, where he saw Weiss placed close before him, a wide, solid stance supporting her body while a tight fist hung frozen above her head, mid-knock. All of this was drawn together by the self righteous and combative note which bordered at the sharp edge of her features and burned hot in the blue of her expressive eyes.

“What!?” Mr. S all but snarled, impatient rage bubbling together with a recoiling apprehension at the prospect of dealing with Weiss again, to format his, in hindsight, overzealous reaction.

The great, booming voice of Mr. Schnee crashed through the serene surroundings.

Weiss, Mr. S observed, attempted to brace herself against her father’s words and, to his perfect surprise, failed completely in the attempt.

The now clear bluff of confidence she’d worn as a mask not seconds earlier, crumbled hastily away like a mirage in the wind; the natural, refined grace and ease of purpose which once characterized the heiress disappeared with it, displaced, instead, by a jittering uncertainty and vulnerable presence which seemed to bely her every action.

With an inflecting rebound, Mr. S found his defensive anger quickly smothered underneath the obstructive reality of another emotion entirely, he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was...

Weiss, in the meantime tried hastily to hide within herself, her panicked attempts to do so only formenting the continual breakdown she seemed to be suffering.

Oh, yes, that emotion was shame. There was just something about yelling at a confused teenage girl in the body of her own father that brought that up.

Still, a flame of an anger too long suppressed lashed out against the guilt, and the deepening inertia of his consciousness did nothing to expedite the tarring slow with which the vivid momentum of his emotions seemed now to change.

Mr. S cleared his throat, fixing his tie in a self soothing action as he did so. “What do you want?” he asked, not bothering to filter the annoyance from his voice and interrupting Weiss’s rapidly failing attempts to reconstruct her shield.

Weiss looked up as if just noticing him. She fumbled, straightening herself out into a stiff rendition of a formal stance, dressing herself in a decidedly distant expression as she fixed her jaw and stared, defiant, into his eyes.

She performed these practiced motions, not with the comfortable grace of a consummate heiress, but as a child might, when blockily attempting to copy directed actions which could never come naturally to her.

This juvenile appearance was juxtaposed, however, by the rich, unaffected voice with which she spoke; tinged with sadness, like hollow porcelain, proud and delicate, the words came: “you forgot to give us our room passes.”

This, she said with such natural expectation and cool confidence, that even Mr. S could tell she was negotiating.

“Really?” his voice pitched with insincere shock, “I don’t remember being responsible for your passes,” he said, putting a hand up to his chest.

Weiss scowled slightly, releasing a short, frustrated breath through her nostrils. Speaking once again in a slow, deliberate tone: “We just need-”

“I’m not seeing how what you need is an argument for why I should help you at all,” Mr. S replied, incorrigible rage still fuming at that latest, stinging interruption, as well as the mounting train wreck of a day for which he felt he was only partly responsible. “Good bye, Weiss.” Biting cold etched into his words, “take it as a lesson to plan ahead next time.” Waving with a dismissive finality, he turned away, moving the door to close behind him.

Crashh!

The door metal rung out like a discordant instrument, shaking almost painfully in his grip as it crashed to a hard stop. Mr. S felt painfully through his ringing bones the surprising momentum the door had carried. Spinning about, Mr. S found Weiss straddled half across the entrance, one foot stepping lightly on the carpet while a hand braced heavily against the stainless door; as she did, she looked pleadingly up at him, a dejected weight seeming to drag on every aspect of her character.

“Look,” she ground, shutting her eyes before blinking them open once again with an intense, though quickly fading, fury, “I...realize I’ve made mistakes, and that I’ve hurt you; but, don’t pretend that you haven’t hurt me, either!”

She stopped now, gathering the moment to recapture her disjointed thoughts. “I just...I’m begging you, ok. Is that what you wanted to hear? It...wouldn't be good for us to stay out there,” she gestured weakly with her free hand at some undefined location.

Again, Weiss paused, attempting vainly to shore her argument with substance. Pitiful excuses and unworkable pleas discarded themselves, one after the other, before her rapid analysis, running blazingly through every aspect and character she’d seen in her father, forcing an objective outlook until a desperate gamble appeared, carried on the wings of a distant memory...

“If you were ever serious, when you told me you only held my best interests at heart,” she looked up at him, an immense depth expressing itself in her wavering eyes, “then listen to this one request.”

She paused again, nervousness melting away, “You know I’ve never asked anything of you before,” she trailed to a soft finish, speaking with a purpose that was half questioning in its demands.

Weiss slumped forward with effort, gritting her teeth and balling her fist as if a lingering, physical pain ran through her body, unable to focus any mind on the disjointed mess of a sentence she’d cobbled together under such conditions.

And, it is to Weiss’s credit that she managed such an effort despite her certainty that it was doomed to failure. Even as she spoke, she made desperate contingencies, wondering if, perhaps, Blake might be shielded from the worst of the fallout if they stayed in separate locations. They might be able to-

“Ok,” Mr. S replied, voice quiet, and with an unreadable quality tinging it.

Weiss straightened, blinking away her surprise. She felt...thankful, she realized, diagnosing herself with all the dispassionate analysis of a stranger. It was a strange sort of thankfulness, however, one which wouldn’t allow itself to be associated with the man before her. She stood unmoving, not knowing quite what to say or do under the circumstance except to face her father, lower her fist and give a wholly inauthentic, “thank you,” with a clipped and robotic voice.

“Don’t,” Mr. S spread his hand towards her as if making a shield; closing his eyes and turning his head to the side, he released a long breath before facing her once more, “...nevermind,” he said, painedly, “just go ask Schwarz to get you a pass, tell her I said to do so… .” For the first time exhaustion was apparent in his posture.

Mr. S turned softly to leave when he was interrupted once more, this time by, what was, essentially, quite a simple question, one which under no circumstances need have taken more than a moment of his time.

“Where is Schwarz’s room?” Weiss asked, and Mr. S felt his eyes twitch.

The thing about simple questions is: it doesn’t matter how simple they are, if you don’t know the answer.

“You know what --” Mr. S said, turning around with beleaguered enthusiasm and what seemed to be measured consideration “-- we shouldn’t bother Schwarz with this, she’s had a long day. I’ll get those passes for you myself.”

Weiss, really didn’t want to have her father personally come out to hand out room passes to her friends. In fact, she really didn’t want, or plan, for that matter, to stay on the same continent as her father for the foreseeable century.

So, it came naturally when she said, “of course,” with her own falling expression, rapidly coming to the realization of how little bargaining power she’d come out with under the situation.

“Excellent!” Mr. S said, shooting her a friendly smile.

“Great!” Weiss replied, giving him a “go fuck yourself,” smile.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

* * *

Weiss had been given her passes, and increasingly, the floor started looking like a viable alternative to a bed.

Ozpin and Glynda were surprised when, at the far end of the distant hallway they travelled, they could see Mr. S pass slowly by in a trance-like state, as if already halfway in the depths of sleep.

Eventually, as their paths met, they were again surprised at the polite ease with which he mustered a response to their greetings. This, despite the fact that his eyes, glazed over in unconsciousness, never left that point, several miles straight ahead of him, at which they conspired persistently to stare at.

“I’m no great friend of Jacquez’, but he seems to me to be rather… disturbed, as of late,” Glynda noted, looking back at the man’s still retreating form.

“Yes.” Ozpin coolly took another sip from his mug.

Glynda looked up at the man. “I imagine you might be familiar with what’s ailing him, then?”

“Glynda --” Ozpin said jovially, looking over at her with a sly, knowing look, “ -- I have absolutely no idea.”

And, they both continued on their way, thinking, in some way, on the strange meeting with the man.

* * *

Mr. S, for his part, failed to remember the encounter even twelve paces beyond where it had occurred.

He was… wretchedly tired. For some reason, the image of the girl, Weiss, flinching away from him when they’d spoken replayed in his mind.

He… felt tired -- so much so that he couldn’t even comprehend exactly how he felt about that knowledge, other than that it increased his exhaustion tenfold and robbed him of his desire to sleep.

Faintly, now, he recognized the approaching mass of metal that guarded his corner of the palace. Outside of it, Schwarz was standing in patient expectation.

“Mr. Schnee,” she began expectantly at his arrival, holding up a glowing tablet, “I’m sorry to bother you, but we-”

“Please, Schwarz,” he interrupted weakly, “I’m just tired right now.”

Schwarz blinked in shocked surprise, “Of course.” She backed deferentially away from the doorway, other words not finding their way.

Burying the pang of guilt that sparked up at the dismissal, he stepped, through the doorway, onto the soft carpets of his inner manor. In the privacy of his little domain, he could feel himself almost physically falling to bits and pieces, every joint hanging loosely off every other. Mustering the last rags of his strength, he made his way painfully off to the inviting sheen of his bedroom door.

As he stepped into the strangely familiar room, a sudden memory, one which could only have been constructed to torment him especially, dawned.

Looking at the darkened room and the freshly made bed, the events of the day rushed back, and he recalled with hazy memory, that he had, just this morning, knowingly held in his hand the chance to reveal himself!

And, despite the confusion and delirium which racked his faculties, he could still understand, clear as day, that that opportunity was now gone.

It was shocking in it’s starkness how, eighteen hours ago, an admission ot the truth would have been… insane, yet, by that very insanity, believable. Now... now all such an admission would raise would be rumors and accusations of how desperately he was trying to account for his recent failures.

If there were ever an opportunity to admit himself cleanly, it was gone now, irrevocably gone.

The thought hit him like a hammer, forcing the breath from him in a sort of low, tortured moan. That problem alone, he could have, perhaps, mustered himself against, but the vicious undercurrents, and unknowns and problems it lay piled upon…

He only let out another, self soothing moan, barely heard, even to himself, yet expressing the deepest despair.

And still, at such a time, with so many problems hanging over his head, he could really think only of sleep.

Mr. S felt the sickening, drug-like, beat of his heart strengthen when his eyes made contact with his bed. He swore he could see every stitch on the comforter, even in the sparse moonlight which shone through the window.

There, the carpet passed underfoot, and the bookshelf drew closer and behind him the mirror stood vigil on the night stand.

All the rest of the world seemed peripheral, however, as he approached the vestigial canopy stands, feeling silken cloth under his fingers, and a soft give under his back.

And, sliding unconsciously beneath the fluffy, white blanket he closed his eye, and, in doing so, didn’t so much drift into sleep as he crashed into it.

* * *

The wreckage was acrid. Smoke obscured the world, and what little he could peer through it was nothing more than a soot covered window and blood stained dashboard.

To his side, and in the back were mangled-

He was stumbling out of the wreckage, screaming, he thought. A broken, unhinged propeller spun endlessly at the front of his plane.

Strangely peaceful, manicured grass and a man-made garden surrounded the burning wreckage, somehow engulfing it in their general serenity.

Cut lawn, geometric bushes, and pastel flowers which shone against the white sky made up this world. No part of it interested him as much, at the moment, however, as the fountain.

Still screaming, he was sure he was screaming, he ran and dunked his burning face into the fountain, splashing the cold water wildly onto his char-blackened body and drinking it down his horrid throat when off to the side, visible even beyond his closed eyelids, a white flash came.

More than that, with the white flash, the presence of something came.

“Opening his eyes,” he found that his physical aches were disappeared, and he was now standing straight in a clean, grey suit -- looking at himself.

No, no, that wasn’t him. He was looking at someone else.

He didn’t devote much attention to the phenomenon. His head flickered nervously about in frantic observation. His breathes came hurried and forceful and he tried, again, to focus on everything but his memories.

“Who are you supposed to be?” he asked the figure pointlessly, trying to fill the dead time with words.

To his complete surprise, the man standing opposite him answered.

Snow-white hair glimmered in the sunlight and a silver ring moved with a gesture and the man introduced himself.

“Why,” he began, sounding almost surprised at the question, “I’m Jacquez Schnee.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.

**Part 2**

**As He Lay, Dying,**

**Chapter 17**

* * *

“Why, I’m Mr. Schnee,” the man said.

And, like a moving sketch, the image rendered suddenly into one, inconsolable, whole -- the silver ring and silver hair fitting together like puzzle pieces to create the man who now stood in front of him.

With famished expectation, Mr. S took in the new sight, immediately noticing that… they actually looked quite like each other. It was something about the distance which highlighted this; but, take away the mustache, change the hair color, and they could have been twins! Well, fraternal twins, but brothers nonetheless!

This reconciliation of facts was a subconscious one, however; for, in the moment, the main portion of Mr. S’s consideration was directed towards the composition of his first words to the man who could have been his brother:

“You! Space Hitler! Monster!” Mr. S sputtered out the disjointed observations, recoiling back in surprise and pointing an accusatory finger at the figure ahead.

“Oh, for the love of- You too!?” Mr. Schnee interrupted his earlier, serene expression, now taking on an annoyed look which he directed at his counterpart.

“Yes, me too!” Mr. S answered. “In case you hadn’t noticed, genius, the whole world’s been in on the secret for a while now!”

“Oh, would you come off it!” Jacquez sneered, “the whole world barely knows where their hamburgers come from. And I’ve far better things to do with my time than to answer for some half-considered talking points you’ve seen fit to regurgitate!”

Now, at this juncture, it could confidently be stated that Mr. S didn’t hold the highest opinion of Mister Schnee. In fact, you could say he had quite a negative view of the man. However, it was equally true that Mr. S was rarely an argumentative creature and, under normal circumstances, would have been content to let the matter drop.

The circumstances were hardly normal, however, and the day’s marks had yet to fade from his psyche. Moreover, the decidedly immaterial plane that now hosted him seemed, like a lash, to strip away at any guards he might have had protecting the soft underbelly of his subconscious.

And it was in this soft underbelly that the blazing shock of the previous day, and the recurring trauma of the recent plane crash, swirled together, mixed violently into a sickening emotion which urged him on to belligerency.

In spite of the riotous emotions which boiled inside him, however, his next remark was sinister only in it’s quiet contempt.

“That must be quite an easy thing to say,” Mr. S said, “for a man who’s made serfs of a people.”

Mr. Schnee exploded.

“AND YOU THINK THAT WAS MALICE!?” he erupted, throwing his arms upward; outright yelling. “Before me, the entire god-damn system was full of cowboys and black market dealers!” Mister Schnee waved his hand in a sweeping gesture. “And, bear in mind, I use the term, ‘cowboy’ lightly; because it is entirely too formal a classification for a business consisting solely of mercenaries that rode off into the forest waving their guns around, until they ran into a village large enough to enslave!”

Mister Schnee abruptly halted his tirade, sucking in a deep, calming breath in the intermittent pause.

Mr. S was taken aback at the forceful redress, but that cavorting insect stirred up the bile still further. And, whether it was from any rational doubt, or perhaps a cruel desire to blame, he wasn’t yet willing to let the matter drop.

“Oh, and I suppose providing water to all of your workers was a company-breaking prospect?” Mr. S asked, adding blithely, “couldn’t afford to sell half your mansion for that luxury?”

“THAT HAPPENED ONCE!” -- Mister Schnee regained his lost momentum, turning painfully livid in an instant before adding, more subduedly -- “and it was rectified immediately when it came to my attention! Whoever told you that, and I truly can’t imagine anyone I am likely to know telling you that, has either the attention span of a half-wit, or came fresh out of a White Fang training camp!”

Mister Schnee was positively shaking with indignation at this point, and, here, Mr. S paused briefly. In the back of his mind, now that he thought about it, he did recognize that his source for those accusations was unreliable at best... His feelings were slower to change than his reason, however, and, stil…

“Well, then, your holiness. It appears I was wrong to judge you so harshly,” he said, calmly adding, “and it appears your daughter is wrong as well… to flinch whenever I move your hands.”

That, Mr. S could see, seemed to sting the man.

“My father did worse to me,” he answered quickly, nodding his head aside. “And, if you have any worries for her emotional well being, I can assure you that she is a strong-willed girl who will not listen to reason. In the past year alone she has been in three near death situations!”

Mr. S was unimpressed, and he pressed yet further. Shamefully, he would later recollect: in his heart of hearts, he did this more because he saw it could hurt the man, than for any defence of rightness.

“Forgive me,” Mr. S said, "but I still fail to understand how any of this well intentioned fathering could lead to the fear I saw in her eyes, when she felt that she had to beg me for shelter.”

Here, Mister Schnee… almost physically crumbled away before his eyes, looking as if he’d aged fifty years over the course of that revelation.

Taking a weary breath, Mister Schnee, strangely, looked far less restricted than he had been previously. It was the same look one saw in the eyes of a man on his deathbed, when he felt that somber truths could be admitted without consequence.

There was a heavy quiet, and it was a long time before he spoke again, words dragging with melancholy when he said:

“Do you honestly think I wanted it to end like this?”

Mister Schnee then fell silent, lost in thought as he vainly processed the new information, leaving Mr. S as a quiet witness to the painful, decades-long misery that overtook the man.

That… sadness, more than the stern defence, more than the cold logic, was what moved Mr. S to compassion.

“Look,” Mr. S said at last, “forget about the… nevermind. Can you just tell me what’s going on?”

“Well,” Mister Schnee recovered himself with a spartan efficiency, “that what I was calling you to say.”

Mr. S reeled at the turn of conversation. "Calling me?” he asked.

“You haven’t been feeling tired these past few hours?”

'So, that's what that was,' Mr. S crossed away that mystery.

“I was, actually,” Mr. S admitted, “but, you know, you could have dialed it back a bit. I’m fairly certain I’ve... inconvenienced us, in my exhaustion.”

“Well I’m afraid you’re going to have to get used to inconvenience,” Mister Schnee said, “because we don’t have much time.” At this, he lowered a hand and, with a very distinct _clinking_ sound, tapped a finger onto his marble hip.

Mr. S did a double take at that. Perhaps it was the dream like nature of this event, where details seemed to fade in as required, or perhaps it was a trick of the light, aided by the fact that Mister Schnee was wearing a white suit, but, blinking his eyes in a vain attempt at re-calibration, Mr. S could see now that, yes, indeed, the lower half of the man’s body was made entirely of stone!

A cold second passed and, very slowly yet very noticeably, Mr. S could see the marble front-line creep up the man’s body with a slow, grinding sound.

“What’s that?” Mr. S pointed at the phenomenon, finger shaking with his voice.

“Our timer,” Mister Schnee answered, dreadfully calm, “and I’d very much like to conclude this conversation before it runs out,” he said, a slight annoyance tinging his voice.

“Right, right,” Mr. S answered with a hurried voice. “You were going to tell me how I got here?”

“Well, not so much the how as the why.”

“Ok,” Mr. S said, expectant.

Mister Schnee continued, unperturbed except for the slight, involuntary, hitch with which prefaced this leg of the conversation. “There is..." he broke off suddenly, restarting, "There’s this old family legend of mine that’s been passed down, quite persistently, through the generations. It’s the story of our progenitor, Yakov Gale." Mister Schnee began anew, continuing, "It’s a long story, and, despite this -- ” he looked around at his surroundings, sighing “ -- apparent kernel of truth buried within it; it is still a legend, and probably filled with more falsehoods than any necessary wisdom, so I’ll keep it brief.”

Jacquez paused, preemptively embarrassed, and struggling to find the right phrasing with which to introduce the idea.

“In the legend,” Mister Schnee started, “it appears that Yakov went through an ordeal -- very similar to the one we find ourselves in now. And, this, the story goes, was the method by which he was able to avert a great disaster, conquer his enemies, gain wealth and fortune, and win other such commendations, thereby starting our royal line,” reciting the entire story boredly and in a single breath, as if impatient to reach the conclusion of it.

Taking a momentary pause, Mister Schnee continued his story. “Well, the story ends with the usual pleasantries, but not without the distinguishment that, once in a life-time, every member of the Gale line will be presented with an opportunity to call forth their own champion; and, very recently, I was presented with mine,” he said, gesturing over at Mr. S in explanation.

“Your champ- wait, so you think I’m like your guardian angel or something?” Mr. S said, sounding slightly sick.

“I wouldn’t have put it in those terms, but yes, I suppose, in a way, you are,” Mister schnee admitted. “But, this is the first time in recorded history that this has happened to anyone in my family line -- more precisely, it has been no less than two hundred thirty years since Yakov Ga-”

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Mr. S interrupted rudely, “but, considering the time limit you were harping on about, is this really the time to be going over your family history?”

“I- I’m not chronicling my family tree in some effort to preen!” Mister Schnee barely kept the note of exasperation from controlling his voice. “I’ve taken the time to say this so as to impress upon you the key nature of your position!”

Curiosity piqued, Mr. S asked, “Oh, and what’s so key about it?”

“Huh,” Mister Schnee sighed, restoring his former serenity. “The fact is, it’s been two hundred years since Yakov started our family name. Ever since then, if the legends are true, over twenty generations have been presented with this opportunity;

“Yakov Gale, in the story, used it to avert a disaster once thought ineluctable; but -- ” Mr. Schnee continued, adding another controlled pause, “ -- not a single one of his descendants elected to do the same! Through famine, war, and death -- through pestilence and drought, none thought their position drastic enough… But, I _do_ think the present situation drastic, stranger,” he said, voice resonant with higher meaning.

“And I _know_ ," he continued, "that the world needs a champion -- now, more than ever;” Mister Schnee bowed his head in quiet dignity; “That is why I have called upon you.”

“Wait, I thought your last name was Schnee-”

“I married into it! Would you please focus, you ingrate-” Mister Schnee stopped abruptly, took a calming breath.

“I married into it,” he repeated, steadier, “but, seeing as that’s neither here nor there, it would be to our advantage to keep our attention on more relevant topics.”

“Ok, ok,” Mr. S agreed, tamping down on the overwhelming giddiness which made it difficult to take such fantastical scenarios at face value; that, and the sneaking skepticism which provoked him, relentlessly, to hunt for inconsistencies in the story being laid out before him;

“Ok,” Mr. S continued, his excitement eliciting the repetition. “Why did you decide to activate the power? The world seemed pretty ok, from what I saw. At least, there weren’t any impending, unstoppable disasters looming over the horizon.”

Jacquez rose up to speak again, but retracted the effort before it had begun, a thoughtful look becoming him as he struggled to put to words what were surely worries of an existential nature.

“I’ve... been plagued by recurring nightmares, lately,” he admitted. “I know that may seem superstitious but, believe me, I am in a better position than most to analyze the state of Remnant; and, from what I’ve seen: it’s... evident that society is falling apart.”

“...ok,” said Mr. S.

“More than that,” Jacquez said, retiring his somber tone in favor of an even more somber tone, “It seems obvious that… someone, something, is working to undermine its foundations. And, despite this, no one seems to see anything amiss! No one is willing to take any action!” He was huffing indignance by this point, and Mr. S was sure that if his legs weren’t occupied, he would be pacing.

“Uh, huh,” Mr. S said, pretending to consider the matter. “And, I imagine you’ve got some pretty compelling evidence for this hypothesis? If so, does the cork board come out now, or later?”

“Laugh all you like,” Mr. S said seriously. “But the evidence is clear that things are getting worse. You have heard of the White Fang, by now, yes?”

“They’ve come up, yeah.” Mr. S angled his eyes upward, recalling the relevant events of the day. “They seem pretty bad,” he commented.

“And they’re a model illustration of what I’m talking about. If anyone would just _look_ at their history, It’s amazing how many… irregularities have coincided to allow their more radical elements to prevail.”

“You know, coincidences exist, too,” Mr. S supplied, using that calming tone people adopted whenever they found themselves trapped in conversation with a crazy person.

“Oh?” Mister Schnee challenged, “then is it perhaps a coincidence that, since their inception, there have been no less than four hundred governmental and non-governmental attempts by human groups to draw out peace agreements with the White Fang leadership? Three hundred and ninety four of which never even managed to _make contact_ due to various miscellaneous reasons such as shipping delays and grimm runs; and those are just the official reasons! Of the ones I looked into, over half were stopped either because of blackmail or because some chairman suddenly found himself in prison on charges _no_ competent millionaire could be convicted for!”

“Well, they still made some cont-”

“And, oh yes!” Mister Schnee supplied rapturously, “how could I forget! The ones who made it to the island!” talking now in a mocking tone.

“Yes, six governmental agents did manage to land on Menagerie,” he admitted; “ _Five_ of whom were killed in mysterious circumstances.” He said this with a punchy tone, as if to hit home the incredulity of the facts.

“Uhhh, Yeah,” Mr. S nodded obviously, “they were negotiating with terrorists! I’m not sure how this adds up to some grand conspiracy, dude.”

“No,” Mister Schnee denied with a shake of the head, “I don’t believe the White Fang bear any responsibility for those murders.” He continued past the surprised look Mr. S sent his direction, bringing a hand up to his chin. “They were still a, mostly, peaceful organization at the time. Besides, they were the ones who engaged the governments to send the delegates, and several of their own guards were killed in the final few engagements. It wouldn’t make sense for them to sacrifice as much political capital as they did in those scandals, just to kill some mid-level ambassadors.”

“Ok, but-”

“And that’s not even the half of it,” Mister schnee -- like many people who’d found an audience for their unloved ideas -- continued on without noticing the other person. “Even if you attributed all of that to bad luck, there’s still the problem of their invisible power base?”

“Excuse me?” Mr. S asked, confused.

Mister Schnee began to explain but paused, shaking his head in consternation. “Let me just put it this way,” he said at last. “Several years ago, the White Fang was a loose collection of private support groups that occasionally protested. Several months ago, they were besieging the second largest city on the planet and almost succeeded in destroying the entire world's telecommunications infrastructure.”

“Oh,” Mr. S said, with wide eyes in understanding.

“That’s exactly it. They’re gaining power so quickly it doesn’t make sense! Overnight, they’ve built local support in every corner of the world, from parties that traditionally haven’t shown any desire to organize. They’ve also managed to gain the partnership of major _human_ terrorist factions, who have, I assure you, absolutely no sympathy for the White Fang’s creed. This proves an inconsistency, unless you consider that they’re not _gaining_ that influence at all.”

“What do you mean?” Mr. S asked.

“What I mean is: someone must have had that power all along, and _just now_ decided to spend it on something.”

“Ok, wait,” Mr. S shook his head. “Say I believe you. But, even if I do, and I’m not saying that I do, mind, but, even if I do… what am I supposed to do with that knowledge, exactly: be bothered by it until I die? Well, sorry to-”

“You’re here to help,” Mister Schnee said resolutely.

“Help? I’m supposed to help?” Mr. S was incredulous. “News flash, I’ve been ‘helping’ all day! I’ve ‘helped’ myself into more bullshit than I know what to do with, and I’m fairly certain I’m going to get fired tomorrow!”

“What happened?” Mister Schnee asked, mustering past the vague disinterest he held in the matter.

“Well-”

“Actually nevermind, it could have been worse,” Mister Schnee interrupted with a blind reassurance; “You were brought in at a critical time;” he admitted the words; in the same breath admitting his vague disinterest in the matter which, in the end, won out over his pretentions at caring.

“Actually, no; it really couldn’t have been much worse,” Mr. S corrected, looking over at the man with a concerned expression.

Despite his apparent annoyance, Mr. S had to admit he actually wasn’t all that annoyed -- his stiff reaction being prompted mostly by a residual desire to express how, though he was past minding it at this point, he didn’t deserve the sort of shabby treatment fate had awarded him as of late.

“And, you know,” Mr. S hurled on, “I get you’re a busy man and all, but if the fate of the world depends on this whole thing working out, you couldn’t have taken the time to write a post-it note explaining the situation, or at least chosen a less ‘critical time’ to call me in?” he said, making air quotes.

“If only I were able,” Mister Schnee lamented, “but, until the offer came up, I was under the impression that this…” -- he, again, indicated his surroundings -- “had all been a fairy tale. And, as it turned out, the offer is rarely activated at a convenient moment.”

“And, how did _you_ manage to activate this power, exactly?” Mr. S asked, curiosity disturbing the symmetry of his eyebrows.

Of course, Mr. S’s curiosity went far deeper than that one question. It, in fact, extended to about five or ten questions, all of which warred violently in his mind for his attention.

And, uncharacteristically, Mr. S found he was able to limit himself to asking them one at a time. He was able to do this because, along with the overwhelming curiosity that moved him to ask the question, there was, in him, an equally overwhelming apathy that didn’t care what the answer would be.

This, combined with the fact that he was now, in perfect seriousness, employing sentences that included the phrase “the fate of the world”, did very little to engender that ever present sense of verisimilitude, upon which he relied so strongly to keep a sense of perspective.

This lack of perspective, in the end, allowed Mr. S to subvert what would have been his natural reaction had he been in a more conventional frame of mind: namely, to look, overwhelmed, at the myriad questions upon which his future depended that he ask, and ignore them altogether as he stood repeating, “what?” in a weak and confused tone that begged for guidance.

This bears saying because, that previous question, one Mr. S pulled, disinterestedly, out of whole cloth, was asked while still under the influence of that... unawareness which worked to shield him from the reality of his position. And, incidentally, it would be the last thing he would say while behind that shield, because, that question, or rather, Mister Schnee’s answer to it, would be what shocked him back into a normal state.

“And, how did you activate the power exactly?”

Mister Schnee pondered the question. “Well --” he hung on the word for a moment, thinking well on what to say next before settling, finally, on a simply put: “-- I died.”

It was this sudden, and quite unwelcome, reminder of mortality which drove from Mr. S’s thoughts any ideas of distant and grandiose adventure, and instead replaced them with a battering awareness that, hey, dying was also an option, and he’d apparently just been drafted to fight a terrorist insurgency.

Mr. S pondered the matter, eyes flickering in time with his thoughts as he, in a flash, cataloged every relevant bit of information and said, “what?” in a weak and confused tone that begged for guidance.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

* * *

“What do you mean you died!?” Mr. S asked, with obdurate panic.

The question was a natural one, and perfectly proper considering the circumstances; and Mister Schnee, for his part, showed great magnanimity, and patience, and care, when he answered it the first four times.

“I mean that I died!” he answered sharply on the fifth go. “Get over it.”

“Then how are we talking?” Mr. S asked, a distant quality staining his voice as he drew in on himself in rapid thought: “There’s no way you could have been brought back to life,” Mr. S’ eyes glazed over in wonder, mumbling and carried away in self discourse as, inexorably -- and with unerring rationality -- he trundled his way through to the undeniable conclusion:

“But, there’s no way my memories got transferred in an instant. The synaptic shock that would create in your body…” His eyes widened with great realization: “you should be dead!” he blurted, quickly retracting the insensitive pronouncement at a smoldering look from Mister Schnee.

Mister Schnee stooped in an expectant silence for the first few seconds. “Should I wait longer?” he said at last. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt your repetitive questions, or perhaps distract from your blazing insights into what I’ve already said.”

“Who cares about that!” Mr. S, if he noticed the sarcastic remarks, showed no signs of being bothered by it, more concerned by the immediate, mortal danger his words implied. “Don’t try to hide it from me!” Mr. S said, with an accusatory tone; “the only reason you’d activate this power is if you had nothing to lose from doing so!” Mr. S went on with the wild careening of his speculations, “and the only way that that would be the case w-”

“Yes, yes,” Mister Schnee interrupted, waiting impatiently for the man to get over his crisis, “the power is triggered by the impending death of the user.”

“Well…!?” Mr. S, painfully expectant, trained on the other man's lips as a man, dying from thirst, might watch a rusted tap.

The thing about wells in the desert, however, was that they were slow to give water.

“Well?” Mister Schnee echoed, in his own bewilderment. “ ‘Well,’ what?”

“How did you die!” Mr. S asked.

“Well, that’s just the issue,” Mister Schnee started, leaning casually back and letting the stone base of his body carry his weight. “I was asleep when it happened, and my recollections of it are vague at best.”

Mr. S looked at him with a gaunt and starved expression, waiting in tortured silence as Mister Schnee brought a clean hand up to his chin in thought, and crossed his opposing arm over the stone diaphragm underneath his elbow.

“I think… there's a small chance it could have been a stroke.” Mister Schnee said.

Mr. S felt his throat dry. “Pardon?” he almost whispered, his stomach and legs weakening.

This... was the worst! The Absolute Worst! Of all the things it could have been: the idea that he was walking around in a stroke prone body was the worst! That he could be strolling around, minding his own business, only to be taken out by an unexpected stroke was unbearable, untenable to him as a human being. The shock and paranoia alone would be bad enough to kill him, before the stroke could even manage its job!

“Don’t look so hopeless,” Mister Schnee cheered; “as I said, it’s only a small possibility, considering I’ve so far had excellent health. No,” he assured, “Most likely, I was poisoned.”

Mr. S’s felt his throat desertifying. “Pardon?” he whispered; his stomach and his legs, he couldn’t feel anymore, for all he knew he was floating in a vacant, empty space of hopelessness.

This was even worse! Of all the things it could have been, the idea that he was walking around in a poison assassin prone body was the worst! The absolute worst! The idea that he could be strolling around, minding his own business, only to be taken out by an unexpected assasin was unbearable, untenable to him as a human being. The shock and paranoia alone would be enough to kill him, before the poison could even manage its job!

Mister Schnee kept a silent vigil, waiting for the man to return to his senses, and, at last, Mr.S did manage half that job, regaining enough of his mental faculties that he no longer needed to plagiarize his earlier thoughts, and coming out with the fresh, new idea:

“What do you mean, you were poisoned!?”

“Please, let’s not do this,” Mister Schnee begged.

“Ok, fine.” Mr. S tore himself away from the comforting hopes that the man would change his mind, and retract the discomforting statement. “But, what do you remember?” Mr. S asked, “are you sure you were poisoned? Maybe you ought to tell me what happened.”

Of course, there was still the chance that Mr. S could change the man’s mind for him.

Mister Schnee, in answer, was hopelessly efficient with his words. “I was lying in bed when a sudden shock struck me, starting, I think, in the space just inside my inner ear. It spread rapidly throughout my body, and a cold sensation flashed through my veins and set a horrible, brittle, cracking, burning sensation loose across my skin.”

“Yeah, you were poisoned,” Mr. S admitted dejectedly.

“And by a powerful drug, as well,” Mister Schnee added, “the Atropa plant can be quite potent when distilled.”

“You know which plant you were poisoned with?”

“Yes,” Mister Schnee said, lost in his own thoughts now. “It’s a lucky thing you asked me to recount it, because the particulars of my death just struck a chord in my memory. The Henbane toxin is… exceedingly difficult to get a hold of these days. But, it has the advantage that, once prescribed,” he said, with a hint of humor, “it can, with the right preparation, be set to attack a person’s central nervous system. Likely, they trained it to take out my sense of balance along with my cochlear nerve to make for a more natural looking death if I happened to be in the presence of company when it took effect.”

“You keep saying ‘they’,” Mr. S noted. “Who would want to kill you!?”

Mister schnee only answered with an incredulous frown, looking vaguely disappointed at the sheer naivety of the question.

“Ok, who wouldn’t want to kill you?” Mr. S corrected.

Mister Schnee, for the first time, paused a moment to think very carefully about the answer, a slightly depressive look becoming him when he finally found it.

“Uh… Ironwood,” he said.

There was an awkward pause as Mr. S took a moment to realize that there wouldn’t be a deluge of other names following that one.

“What?” Mr. S asked.

“Ironwood,” Mister Schnee replied, more confident this time.

“Are you serious right now!?”

Mister Schnee’s confidence rapidly fell back a step. “Uhh, maybe my mother,” he offered quickly.

“Dude!?” Mr. S said with excited exasperation, “even _I_ have more friends than that!”

“I have friends!” Mr. S sternly denied, adding, more calmly, “I just can’t be sure most of them wouldn’t kill me given the right circumstance.”

There was a weighty silence as Mister Schnee collected himself and Mr. S took a moment to appreciate the wonderfully philosophical air which now wafted about him. He wasn’t exactly sure why it never occurred to him so distinctly, but, all his life, Mr. S had wanted to be an astronaut. Really.

Alas, it seemed clear, now, that the closest he would ever come to achieving becoming an astronaut, would be to repeat the words of one when he, quoting that great American hero, looked hopelessly forward at the figure before him and said, with the quietest grace:

“You are a sad, sad little man.”

“Can we move on!?” Mister Schnee said with patent exasperation and a rapidly expiring patience.

Sensing the dangerous tone of the man, and remembering the deadly consequences afoot, Mr. S eagerly complied.

“Right,” he began, “Is there anyone in particular who might have done you in?

“I don’t know,” said Mister Schnee.

“Is there anyone I should keep an eye out for?”

“I can’t say.”

“Is there anyone I should ignore?” said Mr. S, with slightly more effort.

“I can’t say.”

“Have you had any recent arguments with anyone?” growing more desperate now.

“I can’t say,” Mister Schnee said, with that same, pervading sense of calm.

“Why can’t you trust your freinds!?

“Is there life after death!?

“What is the meaning of ‘is’!?

“Come On, Man, Give Me Something!” Mr. S implored, growing more overstated with each question.

Mister Schnee took a moment to process the requests, and, after a brief period of thought, said, “I can’t say.”

The brief epoch of stinging annoyance Mr. S underwent, though painful, was a productive one. Namely, it reminded him of a similar annoyance he’d experienced in elementary school: involving the precise definition of “can” as opposed to “may.”

“Wait,” he breathed with momentary relief. “You’re saying that you _can’t_ tell me, not that you don’t know. Why?” He structured the sentence as he thought it, disjointed and questioning.

“I was wondering when you’d catch on,” Mister Schnee said, breathing his own sigh of relief “There are limits on what I can reveal.”

“Pardon?” Mr. S said, an icy chill encasing his words.

“We’re not talking now as we would if we were in different bodies. It’s our souls that are doing the communicating.”

“So?” Mr. S said.

In answer, Mister Schnee recited,

“There… are certain truths,

those which a soul holds dear,

from which it may never part;

No matter how clear.”

quoting that oft quoted section of poetry, which he’d first picked up from his literature tutor. Mister Schnee reminisced a moment about the cantankerous old Wintergezode: he’d always been a stringent romantic, instilling in the young Jaquez a stringent awareness of the power poetry held to communicate, clearly and comprehensively, even the most profound and inexpressible of ideas.

“What are you _saying_?” Mr. S was aghast. Here they, but mostly him, were facing death, and the man was talking in riddles!

Mister Schnee just barely held back from rolling his eyes. “I’m saying you should count yourself lucky that we’re even having this conversation. Communicating like this is… rife with difficulties, and naturally there are certain, very close matters of conduct of which I will not be able to speak.”

“Wait, close matters?” Mr. S said, with horrible, dawning awareness. “Are you saying that the more important something is, the less likely it is you’re going to be able to tell me about it!?”

“Precisely.” Mister Schnee was past pulling punches. That’d show him who had no friends.

“Oh, oh gosh,” Mr. S suddenly found sudden difficulty breathing.

“Calm down,” Mister Schnee announced at last in a loud, calming voice. “‘Important’ -- in this case -- means ‘important to me.’ I wouldn’t necessarily have any deep feelings tied up in passwords or bank records,” he said, assuring; “Matters like this are rarely laid out in the objective sense, after all.”

Still in the midst of his panic attack, Mr. S reached out a hand, "We've covered most of the important stuff, though, right?"

"I can't say."

"What!"

"Whether I've told you everything is also one of the things I can't tell you."

"Are you _serious_ right now!?" Mr. S asked.

"I can't say," Mister Schnee answered.

Mr. S swore he could see the bastard smiling. "Well, what _can_ you tell me?"

"Enough," Mister Schnee said, regaining his purposeful tone, "and I think it would do you good to be calm when you take it in."

“Ok, ok,” Mr. S felt his breaths deepen, sucking in more air with each bellow of his chest despite the crisp awareness that his imaginary lungs weren’t doing him too much good in his circumstance. “Who is the person, that is closest to your soul,” he asked, adding after a reflective moment, “...which you can actually talk about.” He walked himself slowly through the sentence as if in desperate lack of company.

“Ironwood.” Mister Schnee answered the question.

Now that he was paying attention, Mr. S could see a particular _character_ develop around the man as he spoke, as if physically holding him back from naming any of the other, deeper bonds he’d forged over the course of his life. Still, Mr. S could easily see that even Ironwood was almost too close to Mister Schnee’s core to be named.

“You really trust him that much?” Mr. S asked.

Mister Schnee vacillated, proposing his words with an accompanying waver of the hands: “It’s not so much that I trust him, as much as I hate his guts.

"I'm... not sure-"

"But, still, I trust that he wouldn’t assassinate me. He was always a hardass for the rules,” Mister Schnee broke away from his previous composure to express, in his tone, a hint of admiration for the man. “Besides,” he added, “even if he did want to kill me, this isn’t his style.”

“What is his style?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure,” Mister Schnee shrugged, as if admitting that fact to himself, “he’d probably challenge me to a duel; maybe carpet bomb my living room.”

Mr. S couldn’t help himself. “Well, actually, guided munitions are generally more effective even on a cost-”

“Anyway,” Mister Schnee interrupted, “we were talking about the information limit.”

“Right, you were saying something about souls if I heard correctly?” Mr. S asked, not willing to take the word too literally despite it being the best explanation for how one mind could simultaneously simulate the both of them.

“Yes.” Mister Schnee answered simply and without further explanation, as if not really feeling the need to add anything more to that statement.

And, Mr. S, despite his incredulity, couldn’t, to his overt exasperation, find anything wrong with that answer.

“Well… ok, fine then!” Mr. S conceded, shrugging his arms ridiculously, “how come our souls are in the same body? You think there wouldn’t be enough room. And if they are crammed together, how come we can't talk? You’d think being next to each other would help!”

“All people on remnant have the capacity to host two souls,” Mister Schnee explained, “It’s a contingency matter, I was told, one which has been... co-opted, to bring us together.”

“You make it sound like this was done with some intelligence,” Mr. S said, frowning wearily.

“Our meeting was… facilitated with the assistance of a pair of beings,” Mister Schnee started. “You may call them gods, if you like. Although, despite their efforts, there are still other issues which prevent our cohabitation, hence our current difficulties.” Mister Schnee gestured to his growing, stone half in explanation.

“Gods,” Mr. S said, disbelief roiling at the borders of his words.

“Yes,” Mister Schnee acceded, again feeling little impulse to justify his response.

A great, terrible wonder overcame Mr. S at this. Gods! They made up at least ten percent of all his pseudo philosophical ramblings! The enormity of the moment, more than anything he’d experienced in the past day, were enough to capture the full ardor of his attention.

It was so strange an experience, to stand bare with the opportunity before him to just… ask those billion questions that a hundred thousand years of human thought had concluded to be unanswerable.

To know the “name of god”… Mr. S almost fainted at the thought. Dare he ask it-

Before he could even consider the matter, however, the question slipped out.

“What are their names?” Mr. S asked with a parched whisper, too late to do anything except cringe in the intensity of the coming answer.

Mister Schnee could see the great and terrible hearth this question held for the man, so he let a respectful, quiet moment stand before, at last, saying: “I can’t say.”

“What-” Mr. S bit back his own curse.

“And I’d rather we not waste time with empyrean matters,” Mister Schnee advised. “We have far more practical concerns to attend to; besides, what little I have yet seen is not for living ears to hear of.” This, Mister Schnee warned with an ominous, foreboding countenance which, if nothing else, succeeded in directing Mr. S’s attention back to those practical matters.

“Ok,” Mr. S conceded,“you said earlier that our souls weren’t compatible. Why is that?” Already, Mr. S was cringing in anticipation of another rebuke; this time, however, Mister Schnee found he could muster an answer to the question.

Again, the man paused to consider his words. Unconsciously, Mr. S noted the increasing frequency with which he was doing that, as well as the increasing intensity with which that _character_ which limited him seemed to be making an appearance.

Eventually, he spoke. “While it is true that the men of remnant are capable, in theory, of hosting more than one soul,” Mister Schnee explained, “this capacity was intended only to be used among themselves. This is the source of the issue because, it seems, the men of your world have souls of a different character.”

“Souls of a different character?” Mr. S challenged. “What does living on a different plant have to do with souls?”

“Well, perhaps soul isn’t precisely the right term to use. Rather, it’s due to an incompatibility in our Auras.”

'Auras,' huh.... Just in time, Mr. S held back his derisive challenges to the concept. Still, this guy was going new-age on him, fast. Although, Mr. S consoled himself, it was the future, they probably had better awareness of things like this if they were having liaisons with actual gods. Well, that, or this guy made his wealth selling yoga mats to the critically uncritical.

Still, he again reminded himself he could fact check this guy later, and, for the moment, accepted the concept without rebuttal. Although, he was past pretending to understand what the other man was talking about anymore.

“Alright,” Mr. S said, “but, what exactly do you mean by ‘aura’ in this case, and how is it different from a ‘soul’?”

“Oh,” Mister Schnee startled, with a hurried countenance, to explain, “I suppose it’s probably difficult to tell the difference. In fact, I’d say most people on remnant wouldn’t recognize that there even is one, but, in some philosophical circles, they isolate ‘aura’ to mean ‘the physical manifestation of the soul;’ being separate from the soul proper.

“Although, I must admit,” he added, “I’m ignorant of the word your people use to describe the phenomenon, if, indeed, your people ever even saw a reason to make the distinction.”

“Oh, uh, a bioelectric field, maybe,” Mr. S announced, hastening not to sound ignorant and feeling unduly pressured not to seem like the simple-minded primitive he increasingly felt he was. “But, more importantly, this means our souls are incompatible? What are we supposed to do if it’s impossible for us to talk to each other?”

“Not impossible,” Mister Schnee corrected, “a soul is still a soul, after all, it is just the purest expression of the truth of a person. It’s really a matter of knowledge that’s keeping us separated. I imagine one of us knew the other as well as they know themselves, we wouldn’t be needing this to keep us stable,” at this, he again tapped the creeping stone, which had now reached his mid chest.

“So, if we ‘knew each other’ well enough, that would take care of our problems?” Mr. S said, feeling patent in his failure to truly grasp the concept.

“Perhaps,” Mister Schnee said, failing to show any concern for the topic as he looked, wistfully, off into the distance and came to bear with the truly frightening prospect he’d, it was apparent now, put off until this very moment.

“What is it?” Mr. S asked.

Mister Schnee lacked the characteristic forbearance he’d shown thus far with his words, seeming to reveal his deepest attitude at last when he, with a hint of a jaunty tone, said, “I… suppose you’ve noticed by now that I’ve been trying to persuade you,” turning his head down and looking up at him.

And, to his credit, Mr. S had.

“Yeah,” Mr.S agreed, “‘the world needs a champion’ was a bit too hollywood for a desk job.”

And, more than that, Mr. S noticed that Mister Schnee was, like every recruiter he’d ever met: disturbingly nicer than he should have been. This made sense when one considered that he was trying to get him to sign up for a dangerous job with not enough benefits. It made less sense when one considered that, unlike with recruiters, Mr. S didn’t really have the option to quit… unless.

“Are you saying I can go home?” he asked, a lively bent to his eyes.

Mister Schnee was startled by the speed of the deduction. Still, he didn’t delay in affirming the fact.

“I… do need to give you the option,” he stated, gesturing to the border-less portal beside him that Mr. S was now certain had been floating there all along.

Mr. S felt strange as he looked through the portal: watching the indistinct silhouette of a man lying in his bed.

“That’s me, I take it?” Mr. S asked, pointing at the picture.

“You’ll be returned to your body at your request,” Mister Schnee answered. “You may experience some discomforts at the loss of memory, but otherwise you wouldn’t be inconvenienced by this detour.”

“And, if I don’t request to be returned?” Mr. S asked.

“Then your body will die. Your mind and soul will be preserved here, of course, but-”

“I’ll stay,” he interrupted the man, not caring to hear his words any further.

Mister Schnee only mustered a placid blink in surprise.

“Brave man,” Mister Schnee complemented.

Mr. S looked once again at the man lying at the edge of his too-large bed. “Not as brave as you think.”

“Still, you’re facing death.”

“Yeah,” Mr. S agreed, with a distant quality to his voice, “that could be a problem.” Worried creases drew soft lines across his face. “But, to be honest, I get the feeling you knew I wouldn’t be going back,” he guessed, trying to lift the mood now.

“I didn’t,” Mister Schnee denied. “I filtered for people that would be useful, and the likelihood of staying was among the selection criteria, but I couldn’t be sure whether you would stay, especially considering how well you seem to have done for yourself.” He gestured at the nice house and nice bed his body still lay on, and which Mr. S refused to look at any further.

Mr. S let out a humorless chuckle. “I thought you of all people would know money isn’t worth much when the world makes you lose your appetite.”

“What happened?” Mister Schnee asked.

“A plane crash,” Mr. S admitted. “I lost,” he looked up with a calculating look as if counting the misfortunes, “basically everything I care about in that.” He sucked a painful breath through his teeth and blinked rapidly before turning his measured gaze back down.

“If it’s any consolation-”

“Look, it happened a long time ago,” Mr. S lied, “I just got distracted because I was reminded of it so suddenly. Let’s not spend the next several years dancing around it?”

Mister Schnee didn’t bother to argue. Time was running short, in any case, and he looked down at his now mostly stone chest.

“I suppose you’re right,” he admitted.

“I always am,” Mr. S said with manufactured braggadocio. “In any case, since I’m staying, is there anything I ought to know?”

“Very much.” Mister Schnee said. “If you want to pass yourself off as me, there are a lot of things you’ll have to learn. We don’t have much time so-”

“Just tell me,” Mr. S interrupted, the freshly raw state of his heart belaying any attempts at courtesy, “I have a good memory.”

Mr. S only looked at him with a credulous expression that he struggled to maintain. “Very well,” he acquiesced, and their next several dozen minutes together consisted entirely of an information dense stream; of passwords, and contacts, and etiquette, and ongoing projects and insurance plans, and phone numbers, and names, and faces, and bank-account numbers, and innumerable other scraps of uncatalogued information relating to his business life, as well as to the as-of-yet-unsolved conspiracy which he'd passed on to Mr.S.

Whatever Mr. S wasn’t told, which, to be fair, was quite a bit, he was informed would be contained in various external sources that Mister Schnee had collated over the course of his life; many of them consisting, as they often did, of various digital media that were stored away on various files that had built up over his career.

All in all, the list was detailed, and rehearsed, and expertly laid out, with enough sources to fill an encyclopedia, and not lacking at all in any necessary aspect. Except, Mr. S noted, it was lacking in the most necessary aspect.

“Ok, but what am I supposed to do about the poison?” He could see the stone had now reached up to the base of the man’s neck, and he was in a desperate panic.

Mister Schnee was far more calm about the situation -- seeing how it soon wouldn’t be his problem -- and magnanimously decided to lend, to Mr. S’s benefit, some of the rational perspective such an apathetic state of mind allowed for.

Mister Schnee lowered his chin, thought about the conundrum, and, with infinite sagacity and unbounded erudition, instructed: “Stay away from bottled water.”

Mr. S, still far too frazzled to make sense of such wisdom, said: “what?”

He said this with a frustrated, and almost impertinent tone, but, for this, he must be forgiven; after all, one can not always make sense of such striking insights. Really, he was usually such a smart guy.

Mister Schnee, of course, understood and accepted the other man’s plight with a welcoming grace, and clarified: “Well, the palace water supply is drawn from a common source, and it’s filtered both on the production and the consumption end, so it should be safe against most methods of attack. And, to be honest, the entire system would dilute any plausible dose of poison to inefficacy, so it would be your best bet if you ever got thirsty. The same goes, to a lesser extent, for the city water supply.”

“Ok,” Mr. S nodded obviously, “but what am I supposed to do about the food!”

Mister Schnee -- once again -- lowered his chin in thought, and -- after a long period of focused reflection -- said, with startling intelligence, an answer that, any onlooker would have to agree was, not only correct, but, indeed, the best conceivable solution: “Well, the human body can survive two weeks without food. I suggest you resolve this situation before then.”

Mr. S thought he had been desperate to ask such pointless questions earlier. But, only now did he realize that he hadn’t been desperate, and his questions hadn't been pointless. He realized this because he was now _truly_ desperate, and _truly_ readying to ask pointless questions like:

“What?” Mr. S said, with a growing weakness in his tone. "But, but-" He could feel his legs failing him, and he felt the world going sideways.

"Also," Mister Schnee heroically added at the last minute, "you may want to focus your attention on the manor. The people who poisoned you are obviously well connected and powerful to have gotten hold of such a deadly poison, but their true danger comes from the fact that they've gotten someone inside the castle working with them."'

"Are you sure there's a traitor? Couldn't they have just snuck in, or maybe used some other sort of tactic or something?"

"No one has infiltrated the Schnee manor in half a millennium, and I assure you, it's undergone extensive upgrades under my tenure," Mister Schnee assured, confident. "And they still needed someone to administer the poison to my food within thirty minutes of it having been served to me, otherwise it would have degenerated in the open air; not to mention, they would have to administer it in such a way that it bypassed normal safety mechanisms. They would need someone on the inside for that."

"But-"

“We don’t have much time left,” Mr. S lowered his eyes vainly to look at the stone just now creeping up the middle of his neck, “try to make the most of it.”

“Will we be able to talk after this?” Mr. S asked, despite the fact that he already knew the answer would be:

“No,” Mr. Schnee shot down coldly. “We won’t be talking again, I should think. In fact, I’m sure this is the last conversation I’ll ever have.” He said this with a harrowed look that Mr. S decided not to take personally.

“Are you sure?” Mr. S asked.

“Yes, just keep steady, and keep Ironwood close at hand.”

“Again with Ironwood, is there really no one else? What about your wife?”

Mister Schnee sighed with a resigned air, “Do you remember when you asked who’d want to kill me?”

“Yes. What about it?”

“She’s probably at the top of the list.”

“Seriously, is there anyone who you can trust?”

“Like I said, Ironwood and...” he paused a moment, and, observantly, Mr. S could see that _character_ form about to restrain him, and, even more interestingly, Mr. S could see that Mister Schnee was overcoming it. “...and also Charra, at the IS plant. She runs the entire Vale-Vacuo sector of the company; I trust her as I do my eyes,” he said, shivering slightly as if he’d walked through an electrified fence.

“But I don’t _want_ to talk to Charra from the IS plant!" Mr. S snarled petulantly, "I want to talk with you!” still overcome with the high emotions that had overtaken him, and, irrationally, overcome with a great sadness at the fact that he’d never be seeing this man again.

“I mean,” Mr. S continued, searching plaintively for any rationalization that could support his irrational objections, “I wouldn’t even know what to do! I’m not sure if I told you this, but the stock’s tanking right now, and I’m pretty sure that was partially my fault!”

“Look,” Mr. S said with an irreproachable sense of self assured confidence, “don’t worry too much about the stock. In fact, even thinking about the stock is one of the biggest mistakes any business leader can make because, really, the stock is completely pointless as a measure of anything-”

“Oh, is that why you have a five story television screen blasting stock numbers through your office wall?”

“That’s just there for morale purposes,” Mister Schnee denied, halted momentarily by the incisively skeptical looks Mr. S shot his way.

“Ok, stocks matter a little,” he acquiesced. “But, really, don’t let it overwhelm you. It may seem complicated, but it's really people behind all of this chaos, and it's people behind the numbers on the screen, and those people just need a leader-”

“Look, I already gave myself this pep talk. It doesn’t work. You can't be a leader if you have no idea what the fuck you're doing!”

“Now, that's where you're wrong.” Mr. Schnee shot back with uncharacteristic swagger, desperate to finish this conversation off on a positive note.

Mr. S sputtered, shaking the frustrations away. “Just, look; are you sure there’s nothing we can do about the communication barrier? Didn’t you say earlier that it would stop being a problem if we ‘knew each other’ or something along those lines.”

Mister Schnee shook his head with a frustrated sigh at the man's insistence. “That was a purely academic argument, there’s no practical-”

“Why didn’t you mention Charra earlier?” Mr. S asked suddenly.

“What?”

“Earlier, when I asked you to list everyone you could trust, Ironwood was the best you could do. Now, you just mentioned Charra, who, if anything, seems even closer to you, considering you ‘trust her as you do your eyes.’”

“W-”

“If I had to guess,” Mr. S interrupted with a brash, unwavering sense of deduction, “you’re either lying to me, or you’re lying to me,” -- in a cold voice adding -- “which is it?”

To his eternal surprise, Mister Schnee laughed with a relieved and slightly appreciative tone. “You’re more discerning that you seem, at first,” he complemented, mixing the observation with the trail end of his dying chuckles.

“I’m not sure-”

“And, I didn’t lie to you,” Mister Schnee added. “It’s true that I can tell you some things that are close to my heart, but there is a limit to how far I can do so. In order to tell you one thing, I must keep another hidden, and the supply of critical information far exceeds the amount that I can give to you. I would have told you this, but it didn’t seem necessary that I go into such details. In either case, there’s a finite store of truly important things I can say.”

“Then why are you wasting it telling me about your favorite middle managers!?” Mr. S asked, “why not just tell me what I need to know to break the communication barrier in the first place?”

“Charra is a good and trusted friend of mine,” Mister Schnee chastised with a hard tone, quickly reverting to his more manageable expression of sincere calm. “And your suggestion isn’t as simple as you make it sound.”

“Why not?”

“Because... there is a secret of mine that you must know in order to break the communication's barrier. And this secret, which is the only thing that can break the communication barrier, is precisely the secret most deeply lodged within it.”

“Well, why couldn’t you have used all of your ‘important information’ passes to tell me that one! We could've been talking all day by now!” Mr. S expressed frustration.

“‘That one,’ is not a secret that can just be told. It is the most dearly held secret of a soul, and it has a quality… different to that of a person’s every other aspect. It is the one thing, if anything, that can define the true nature of a person’s character, it is the ‘untellable secret’ of the poem.”

“What poem?”

Mister Schnee, this time, failed to not roll his eyes. “Nevermind,” he said. “The point is, I wouldn’t be able to tell it to you.”

“Well, what can you tell me about it?”

“Why are you so eager to know?” Mister Schnee asked, a strangely defensive character to his voice.

“So that we can talk without this stupid barrier!” Mr. S said, his voice a frustrated caricature of itself.

Mr. S quickly recovered himself when he saw the deadly serious, and painfully considerate, mask Mister Schnee hid himself behind.

“Look,” Mr. S said after a moment, understanding. “I get that you wouldn’t want other people to know your secret. But, if it helps, I probably won’t judge you too harshly,” he said, unhelpfully. “Besides,” he cantered on, “I doubt there’s anything you could say that would cause me to bail on this whole mission.”

“It’s not that,” Mister Schnee said. “I could tell you something about it, but it’s as unhelpful as it is expensive. I’d have to give up on telling you anything else important just to get the words out! Besides, the secret has long since been buried, there’s no chance-”

“Look,” Mr. S said with a sternness that surprised himself. “I’m the one who’s going to be walking around posing for sniper scopes after this, so, do me a favor, and at least grant this request. If you can’t even trust me to make the right decision on something as simple as this, then the only option you’d have is to tell me everything you know about the secret and hope you can come back to make the right decisions for everything else.”

Mister Schnee found he really couldn’t argue with that. This was in mutiny with his burning desire to argue against it, however.

“Very well,” he said at last, regret and obligation piling heavily on his words.

Painfully, with a ponderous turn of intent and expression, Mister Schnee passed himself against that _character_ once more, which was now almost glowing with the imperious reality of its presence.

“I… have a secret,” Mister Schnee said, calm and pausing for a dead moment, carefully considering his limited supply of words, “It’s… something I regret doing, but that I can’t possibly regret the consequences of.”

“That all you can say?” Mr. S asked, worry gnawing at the excited titters of his gut.

“That’s all I can say.”

“Have you told anybody?” Mr. S asked.

“I can assure you, there’s not a soul left alive on Remnant who knows.”

Mr. S felt himself shrinking back from the hard, refined surface of his voice. He wanted to ask another question, any question, even if only to feel that he was being productive in the final moments. But, he restrained himself; looking at the man encased in a dungeon of stone he asked: “When I go out there, is there anything you want me to do?”

Mister Schnee was immediate in his reply.

“Weiss,” he said, “my youngest daughter. She will hate you… me. Do not think this is something that can be fixed with words, or fixed at all, she… she is hurt, because of what I’ve done to the family name, and she despises that I’ve disowned her from it- for her safety!” he said, preempting Mr. S’s rebukes.

Mister Schnee sighed, regaining his train of thought. “She hates me for what she sees as besmirching the family name, and she will continue hating you unless you can meet her impossible standards.

“She’s an idealist,” he said wearily, “despite my best efforts.”

“Why tell me this now?” Mr. S asked.

“Because that idealism -- along with her opinion of me -- will make her… difficult.” Again, he saw the need to preempt Mr. S. “-Whatever you may think of me, or of her,” he said, with a quickly peaking tone, “you must promise that you _will_ think of her. You must think above all of Whitley and of all my daughters; before the company, before the city, before your life.” This, he said without flourish or decoration, stating it as simply as if it were fact.

“Look,” Mr. S said with an appeasing, exhorting quality to his voice, “I wouldn’t just-”

“Promise me,” Mister Schnee demanded. “Promise me, as one father to another.”

The sudden, recalcitrant shock of the request was enough to wake the man, and before he could even measure his words, Mr. S found himself speaking. “I promise,” he said, meaningfully, as the stone creeped over an invisible border around the man’s neck, and with a tripped, blinding flash struck forth, leaving Mr. S staring, bewildered, at the dignified, stone countenance of Mister Schnee.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

* * *

And that stone face, so familiar now to Mr. S, faded; with it the dream waned to oblivion and the waking world came into ever greater distinction .

Blearily, Mr. S blinked his eyes open, squinting them into a confounded stare at the indistinct figure which moved in front of him.

Slowly, the personage came into focus, and Mr. S’s expression focused with it into one of false recognition.

“Sieben!” he called tiredly, rolling himself into a seated perch atop his mattress, recalling the plump, red-cheeked face and balding hair from the brief list of key staff he’d been inducted into memorizing.

“At your service,” the man turned with a familiar smile, red waist-coat glimmering in the faint sun-light. “I heard the news,” the man said bluntly, “I take one day off and everything goes to hell,” the smile rolled into a chuckle, an insinuating, conspiratorial crook turning at the edge of his features.

Mr. S found himself laughing along from relief, grateful at the sheer mastery with which the man had managed, with so few words, to dispel any remnant of that lingering awkwardness which had followed Mr. S in every substantive interaction since the gala.

“You know, occasionally I get the feeling you’re the one link that keeps this whole operation from burning to cinders,” Mr. S admitted, hopping out of bed a fresh man.

“Only occasionally, sir?” Sieben joked, replacing onto the cabinet top the delicate, silver statue he’d been inspecting; it depicted, in action, a small boy riding a sled.

Mr. S took the refrain with gentle good humor. Pausing at the edge of his bed, he took a deep, crisp breath of the fresh air he now found himself consciously appreciative to be breathing. After all, there were less fortunate people who struggled to get enough air every day, so what had he been doing moping about the castle uselessly for?

Today was a new day! And today was another chance at life! This morning would mark the second day of the rest of his life, and he was going to make the most of it!

And, today… today was going to be different! He wouldn’t be bumbling around cluelessly, he was informed, now; he was determined; and he knew exactly what he had to do! And, with that assured, unhesitating deliverance scaffolding him, he determined quickly his first course of action.

“Sieben,” he said with an authoritative voice, “bring me my clothes. I want to make an appearance.”

Ah, yes, getting dressed: a classic opening in the game of life.

“I’ll imagine you’ll want a set different from the one you’re already wearing, sir?” Sieben asked, directing Mr. S’ attention to his current dress.

The rumpled suit he’d neglected to remove looked back up at him and, suddenly, he remembered that, even with his sudden turn of attitude, the consequences of yesterday's actions probably wouldn’t be kind enough to realize that he was a different person now, and that they really ought to stop bothering him.

Immediately, the world took on a grayer color, and he found his will to go on rapidly diminishing. Along with this, he could also sense his enthusiasm fading in real time as he started to take air for granted again. Amazing what ten seconds out of bed can achieve.

“Yes, I think a new suit would be wise,” Mr. S said, trying vainly to maintain the good mood Sieben had set, and immediately set about removing his jacket.

It was a bit weird to strip in front of his butler, but, apparently, it was cool as long as you were paying them to dress you and you kept your underwear on.

Quickly removing his shoes and tossing aside his jacket, he skidded softly over the carpeted surface to the near corner and entered into the bathroom.

Mr. S took a hasty shower and, having finished it, leaned awkwardly past the acrylic stall panel, straining to reach the distant towel when, out of the corner of his eyes, he was surprised to find a bright pair of freshly pressed boxers had been slipped underneath the bathroom door.

It made sense that a bright pair of freshly pressed boxers had been slipped underneath the bathroom door; in fact, he’d been expecting it. But, looking at the white pair of boxers which, contrary to all logic, seemed to stand out against the white tiling, he couldn’t help being distracted by the revolutionary thought: “why the hell couldn’t he pick his own damn underwear!”

This was a trifling thought, and frankly not one worth recording, if not for the fact that it made _just_ a strong enough of an impression, and came with _just_ the right timing, to distract Mr. S _just_ enough to cause him to slip.

His right ankle, upon which most of his weight had been braced, twisted out from underneath him in one direction, and, like a reverse pendulum, the cantilevered mass of his upper body went rushing off in the other.

The floor was kind enough to bring a sudden stop to this however, and, an instant after his upper body came crashing onto the cold tiling, his head cracked solidly against the polished foundation.

Again, in the course of a life, this event was, as it turned out, equally trifling. It, Mr. S found, however, was still worth nothing because, unexpectedly, on the right side of his skull which, not two seconds ago, had been smashed against the floor… IT HURT!

WHY!? Mr. S’ instincts shouted in a thought

Mr. S ground his teeth until they creaked, rising quickly to a steadying kneel and cradling his injured head in shaking hands.

Whatever idle thoughts he’d had about underwear, or even the more serious convictions about how best to emulate Mister Schnee went instantly out the pain-shaped window in the side of his skull.

For the moment, his thoughts consisted of an incoherent drizzle of “Man Up!” and other such proverbs as he sat kneeling on the floor, trying to maintain balance against a treacherous ground, which seemed to be swinging side to side underneath him.

Eventually, after several minutes of sucking pained breaths through his teeth, Mr. S mustered himself enough to stand up and take an account of his situation in the bathroom mirror.

Turning his head aside, all the while keeping an attentive eye on the mirror, Mr. S gently pressed at the rounded, back corner of his skull, feeling the marshy give of the area and wincing at the sharp flashes of pain his palpating explorations induced.

Some light bruising, but it was all hidden underneath his hair. All in all, nothing serious, he concluded, breathing a sigh of relief.

Now ready, Mr. S, more carefully, took the town and dried himself, afterwards brushing his teeth, and, finally, putting on his underwear before setting out.

Sieben was waiting by the bed; a white blazer-jacket was laid out on the mattress in front of him, surrounded by a series of lacquered jewelry boxes that had been strung out into an arched semicircle.

Mr. S faced away from Sieben; in front of him, he saw the clean line of the dark-headboard against the grainy wall-paint of the south wall, and embroiled himself in the tumultuous hassle of dressing. Nervously, he swept up the egg-shell pants, flicking them straight out in front of him, somehow, the act of getting dressed only further engaging his self-conscious awareness that was underdressed.

Behind him, inches away from the stack of underclothes, lay the double breasted blazer which Sieben still pampered with careful attention. As he did this, Sieben worked admirably to lift the mood, or rather, to halt its precipitous decline.

Mr. S was certain Atlas had the easier job, all things considered.

“I must apologize for my last minute absence yesterday," Sieben said suddenly and with a genuinely regretful tone, continuing-- “I hope you weren’t too terribly inconvenienced.”

Mr. S let out an impatient sigh tinged with humor, shaking his head to show the apology had been unnecessary. “Contrary to popular belief, Sieben, I am capable of dressing myself,” Mr. S admitted, sucking in his gut as he pinched together the waistband and hooked the button closed.

“Of that, I have no doubt,” Sieben said. “Still, as head of staff, it is taken upon me to be an exemplar of duty and service; I don’t get all that extra pay for nothing, after all,” Mr. S could hear the smile in his voice, one which quickly faded away to become a more muted apology, “so, it is for that I-”

“You embarrass me, Sieben,” -- Mr. S interrupted gently -- “if you think one lapse could make me forget your years of loyal service. So, please, do me one favor, and put at once out of your mind any idea of apologies; none are necessary.”

Mr. S slipped the white undershirt over his body, pulling at the hem to fix the article before stuffing it down his pants. Over this, he donned a grey dress shirt and a glimmering, silk-blue waistcoat.

“So be it,” Sieben relented, “although, while I have you on the topic, I was hoping to discuss a possible change in mine and the staff's attendance schedule.”

“Oh, is it anything to do with your absence?” Mr. S slipped his belt through the last loop, noosing it taught into a stern black line which ran across the definite egg-shell of his pants.

“Oh…” Sieben hesitated, “I wouldn’t quite say that. The reason for my absence was, well, it more of a personal matter, but suffice it to say It was unexpected. In fact, I wouldn’t consider it too great an exaggeration to say it was providence’s hand.”

Mr. S was now sitting on the bed, his side to Sieben as he bent over his raised knee and leaned over to tie his left shoe, the heel of which was resting firmly on the lowered side rail.

“As I said, please don’t feel obliged to explain yourself; this isn’t an interrogation, after all. If you say it was a personal matter, I’ll take it at your word. In any case,” Mr. S calmly lowered his left foot, repeated the process with his right, “you were hoping to discuss the staff schedule.”

“Oh, yes,” Sieben entreated, “we were hoping to switch our schedules so that we had Saturdays and Wednedsdays off.”

“Saturdays and Wednedsdays?” Mr. S raised an eyebrow, coming face to face with the man as he stood back up. “I’m certain much of the house staff would classify that as ‘unreasonably disruptive,’ to say the least.”

As he spoke, Sieben approached him holding out the jacket, which Mr. S obligingly put his right arm through, feeling Sieben walk round the back to the other side just in time for him to weave his left arm into the corresponding sleeve.

He could feel the butler pressing down on his upper back, smoothing out any unsightly folds and ridges in the material. Afterwards, he moved to stand in front of Mr. S, taking hold of his lapels while Mr. S, with a practice grace of motion, closed the symmetric lines of buttons over running down the front of the blazer, working so effortlessly with his dress partner as if he’d been playing this routine for years.

Sieben released his firm hold on the lapels, moving back to pick one of the glossy jewelry boxes off the bed.

“Yes, I admit it will cause some inconvenience for the staff,” Sieben said, “but I have managed to talk the second maid into considering it. I’m certain the rest of the staff will follow along, given enough time.”

Mr. S held his hands out in turn, allowing Seiben to attach the silver cufflinks. “Still," he said, "It’s rather a radical change.”

“Oh, of course, but we can phase it in. We can start with those who already work weekends and expand out from there. It would all be opt-in, of course.

“But, that can come later,” Seiben suddenly turned away from Mr. S, walking over to a small handcart, “for now, your breakfast,” he announced, lifting off the domed, silver serving cover.

“Oh, Seiben, you read my mind-”

Mr. S felt his words trail off, however, all thoughts of a nice meal dissipating once he actually looked at the serving tray.

It wasn’t the finely organized disk of breakfast foods which captured his attention, however.

Rather, more ominously, it was what stood innocuously off to the side of the silver plate: a water bottle.

A WATER BOTTLE!

Was this man trying to kill him!?

It was an unfortunate turn of thought, for, when he looked back up at Siebens trusting face and kindly expression as he warmly held up the steak knife, it seemed obvious to Mr. S that:

This man was trying to kill him!

Of course! How could he have missed it!? Who else would have such intimate access to his food supply? Who else would have the influence necessary to get so many things past security? Who else would have known that yesterday was a good day to skip work! After all, absence records don’t count if your boss is dead! Oh, he couldn’t believe he was stuck in a room with this asshole! This quisling, murderous-

Oh, Mr. S felt his knees grow weak at the realization: he was stuck in a room with this guy!

Bolstered by the severe necessities of his current demands, however, his rationality clamped down, and he soon found that his breaths were renolmazing before he had the opportunity to do much more than inhale a little nervously.

No way it was the butler, he assured himself; his death, if anything, at least wouldn’t be a cliche.

Besides, it wouldn’t have made sense for Seiben to skip work if he knew his boss was going to die. Dead bodies tended to bring in investigations, so why draw suspicion to yourself unnecessarily by changing your rigidly locked schedule? Likely, it probably _was_ just a personal matter that waylayed him; and if it wasn’t, well, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it, not now, in any case.

“Is everything alright, sir?” Seiben asked concernedly, leaning forward and holding the over-sized serving cover out to the side of him.

“Yes,” Mr. S looked away from the plate, “everything's alright.”

“In any case,” Mr. S continued, trying to play it cool, “why the water bottle?”

Sieben looked curiously at the sedentary object; “Why, for the convenience, I suppose. We’ve always gotten you bottled water in the mornings; were you perhaps hoping for a change of routine, sir?”

“No, I’d rather not,” Mr. S nodded, attempting to seem unfazed and failing monumentally as he contradicted himself almost immediately, “just, keep bottled water off the menu for the foreseeable future. And, I think I’ll skip breakfast for today.”

Seiben didn’t argue, merely stepping aside and dragging the food tray with him, allowing Mr. S an opening by which to pass through the narrow corridor his bed formed against the east wall.

“Um… Sir,” Seiben said, when Mr. S had passed by him, stopping the man mainly by the unusual hesitancy that laced his words, as if designed to make Mr. S consider his actions.

‘Great, what did I do now?’ Mr. S, growing tired of the continual chain of rakes he seemed to be tripping over, turned stiffly to face the man with what he hoped was an expression more neutral than incriminating.

“Yes?” Mr. S asked.

Sieben hesitated a moment, drawing out his silence while slowly, drawing his head to gesture at the wooden nightstand beside the bed, saying, with coaxing encouragement, “aren’t you forgetting something, sir?” pausing a moment before insisting, with a more pronounced nod to the nightstand, “Riére, sir.”

Mr. S followed his gaze to the nightstand and brightened up with artificial enlightenment when he saw it. “Oh, yes; of course; Riére,” Mr. S said, “how could I forget,” before walking over to the nightstand to find out what Riére was and how he could conceivably have forgotten about it.

Gently, he made his past Sieben and across the plainly ornamented rug until he reached the bedside table. Once there, he stood a moment, grabbed the button knob which decorated the glossy face of the singular drawer, and pulled.

‘Moly! This was unexpected!’

Mr. S kept a calm exterior despite the dated, inoffensive expressions of panic which ran sprang through his mind, and despite the gun which was now, in time with his raising hand, moving up to his face.

It was only a moment later, as he turned the object around, the more appropriate thought: ‘Holy crap! A gun!’ leapt to mind.

Still, he managed to hold steady as he studied the sidearm. And, as he studied it, he… didn’t really know what to make of it, at first.

The weapon was… very bright, covered almost completely in a blue-white varnish of polished metal he could have cleaned his teeth in.

It was also… badly designed. Not to speak of aesthetics, of course, in that regard, it had no equal as far Mr. S had ever seen. But, as a functional matter, Mr. S grew to doubt whether the thing could even discharge without killing the user.

All over its body, and especially, most worryingly, over the barrel, Mr. S could perceive several discrepancies in the structure, where razor thin and artificially straight cracks spiderwebbed throughout the metal. It seemed almost as if the entire thing, a massive object looking, somehow, like a cross between a revolver and a sawed-off double barrel shotgun, was constructed out of multiple interlocking parts rather than a single, machined whole.

Despite this, he couldn’t make any of the parts budge, or slide away from each other; and, while it was otherwise competently designed and evidently extremely well constructed, he couldn’t get away from the fact that it apparently meant to be functional!

He figured out that it was meant to be functional when, for a laugh, he ran his thumb against the prop safety switch and discovered that it hadn’t been a prop. And, he discovered it further when he, for a slightly more hollow laugh, pulled the prop slide and a prop bullet came out. This came as a surprise, partially because he was now starting to doubt the authenticity of the fakeness of this gun, and partially because this was a six barrel revolver with a slide.

Flicking open the chamber, saw that the chambers had been packed with crayola brand gunpowder, as far as he could guess. It almost hurt his eyes to look at the glass stop-plugs which covered his side of the chamber openings. Partially, this made him tear up because of the fact that some idiot had apparently decided glass was a fine material to include in the construction of a gun; mostly, however, he was squinting at the nearly _glowing_ recess of multicolored dust housed within the multiple chambers. Neon Reds and Cadmium yellows clashed boldly against the relatively subdued exterior of the weapon.

Flicking the chamber closed, and pocketing the bullet, he made a show of checking over the weapon as if giving it a routine inspection.

And, truly, he actually was giving it an inspection. Because, the fact that Mr. Schnee apparently owned a gun for personal carry brought up some very intriguing questions like, “why did Mister Schnee own a gun for personal carry?”

Security was the obvious answer, but, wouldn’t it just be better to get a security team? Still, it might just have made him feel safer; nothing blasts safety like a gun, after all; even Ronald Reagan had one from what he could remember, despite the secret service.

Besides, from what he could work out from the briefing he’d been given, this planet had apparently resurrected the concept of royalty in a big way. And, at this, a sudden memory struck him from what he’d learned about 18th century Japanese history.

The Samurai, by that point, he’d remembered, had withdrawn to become a more bureaucratic regime, with little, if any, warfare being carried out as everyone gathered together and decided to do paperwork all the time. Importantly, however, the “samurai” still carried swords: Japanese swords, to be precise; and often these were very pretty and ornately designed swords that they’d use to style their enemies to submission with. The better and more expensive the sword, the higher your status, it was reasoned; the subsequent buying spree and overzealous smacktalk about whose sword was better than whose eventually culminating in the mid nineties, where Japanese swords ended up more as objects of semi-divine significance to thirty-something nerds who thought it could give them magic powers.

Returning to the point, however, this block of knowledge was just what Mr. S needed to solve this riddle! Because, now that he thought about it, of course Mister Schnee would be carrying a gun! And, of course it would be ridiculously designed. Probably, this Yakov fellow made a name for himself using guns, and his descendants decided to carry on wearing guns of a more and more stylized nature until we came to the future, where Mr. S was standing with a real fake gun in his hands.

And, beyond that, Mister Schnee was a crazy conspiracy nut anyhow! So, why wouldn’t he opt for the functional version? The police are only minutes away and all that.

He sighed in relief, as things started making sense again.

Not permitting the good sense to stop himself theorizing, however, his euphoria led him to continue piling on the reasons why he was right and just so smart for being so.

Because, of course, even in the lack of all that he’d previously mentioned, Mister Schnee would still have a good reason to get the gun, considering he evidentially had people willing and able to murder him! And, of course, a security team wouldn’t be all that trustworthy, since the people after him had someone on the inside!

Mr. S felt his warm feelings rapidly dropping, as things started to make a little too much sense for his liking.

Sobering himself with the thought, Mr. S pocketed the bullet he’d de-chambered and which had, all this time, been rolling lightly across the surface of his palm.

Taking the gun itself, he flicked the safety back and hooked it naturally into that peculiar looking strap, just above his right pocket, that, yesterday morning, he hadn’t been sure what to do with.

Straightening out his jacket over it, he looked pleased at the relative discretion with which the weapon seemed to incorporate itself into what he supposed he would now have to consider to be, ‘his look.’

Turning around, he saw Sieben standing, as he had been, at the foot of the bed; walking forward, he discarded his negative feelings, instead focusing his attention on berating himself for falling so quickly into familiarity with the man. Mister Schnee had given him a list of trustworthy individuals that was two people long! He shouldn't be cantering happily over to literally the first person he’d met! And the guy was just about to give him a water bottle for goodness’ sake!

At the exit, taking a resolute breath, Mr. S calmed. There was no reason to panic, or to collapse into paranoid speculation. There were a few people after his life, was all. He would be fine as long as he did the rational thing and realized that literally everyone close to him was a suspect.

Just then, Schwarz walked in, raising her eyes from her tablet just in time to avoid bumping into Mr. S.

Mr. S matched her wide-eyed expression as he stumbled back a half step, Schwarz doing the same and pressing closed the ajar doorway behind her. Schwarz held her tablet against herself as she looked closely at at Mr. S, who tried not to scream at the sudden, unexpected entrance.

Mr. S recovered himself soon enough. “Schwarz,” he said, talking now in that self assured and ‘aloof manner of person’ Mister Schnee had spared no severity explaining the necessity of.

So it was that, with an aloof manner, Mr. S greeted Schwarz and walked regally onto the carpeted hallway, which, that morning, was quite a bit more crowded than usual.

Not that Mr. S noticed, due to the great care everyone took to hide the fact that they weren’t supposed to be there. Schedules had been rearranged, groups formed and favors called upon as all the staff heads -- in unprecedented unanimity -- came together in that hallway to present, together, a united front of reproach against Mister Schnee.

Said front was weakened only by the fact that they were all on opposite edges of the hallway pretending to dust something.

Now, to be fair to them, Mister Schnee could be quite an intense man at times. And, while they may have juggled the schedules a bit and taken other people’s jobs, there _was_ actual dusting to be done.

Despite the urgent buildup of dust around Mister Schnee’s doorway, however, the real reason they were there was because -- contrary to popular conception -- the servants of a house were actually quite loyal to it, often more so than the nobles whose titles they derived theirs from.

The servants of the Schnee family were, in this regard, especially fervent; and, this recent scandal... well, it was just inexcusable. For a _house_ _head_ to allow a faunus into the family… on no account could they allow this to stand! There were standards to be kept, after all.

And it was precisely because of these standards that the lot of them were loitering outside Mister Schnee’s door, silently praying that one of the other staff heads would be the one to broach the idea that, probably, he ought to recant a little, please. Maybe admit that his opinions were just the slightest bit unacceptable.

And it was here that their crusade came up against the bulwark of its inherent absurdities; firstly, the fact that it had fallen upon them to remind the family head -- THE FAMILY HEAD -- of all people about the importance of his name came off as a bit… untenable, psychologically. Secondly, there was the more practical matter that, no matter the era, it was a bit difficult to chastise what was essentially your boss, especially about a matter as straightforward as this!

Really, they were at a loss as to what to do. The most any of them ever expected to deal with regarding this matter would have been, at an extreme, to straighten out a recalcitrant employee, not to lecture THE FAMILY HEAD about basic genealogy!

Yet, on the other side of that rock, they were pressed forward by the hard place that they’d _have_ to lecture him because he’d gone crazy.

Hence, all the dozen or so of them stood scattered about the entrance to Mister Schnee’s chamber, resolute in their commitment that someone would have to talk to him and equally resolute in the understanding that it wouldn't be them.

This feeling of general cowardice was a source of great camaraderie for all the staff heads as they stood outside the chamber, and, for the more experienced among them, came with little surprise. Even in the comfortable lightning and welcome seclusion of their staff room, with the fervent panic of the news broadcasts firing them up, the mere organization of the affair had been fraught with tension. Here, as they stood isolated and with anxious anticipation outside of his door, they found their nerve suddenly waning. And, when Mister Schnee finally stepped out and presented himself, with his characteristic, aloof manner of person… well, then all bets were off.

They looked instantly at his cold, deeply set eyes, and were became very much reminded of Mister Schnee’s suddenly explosive bouts of temper. Of course, these were often directed at outsiders and enemies, but they did make bare the considerations of whether any of them, in any capacity, wanted to become an object of antagonism for the man.

Of course, as much as they cursed themselves and pretended to wish they had the bravery to speak up, it was fairly obvious to all present that none of the staff heads would be the one to broach such a sensitive topic.

No, that honor would fall to a man of great renown and presence in the palace community. This man was, in some ways a paraia, having no royal blood or even a name of any renown to speak of; in other ways, however, the castle staff often begrudgingly admitted that he could be useful. For example, he was the only motherfucker crazy enough to even conceive of doing what they had hastily planned to.

Still, this grudging acceptance never stopped them from prefacing the use of his name, whenever they had occasion to whisper it, with the modifier “crazy;" not even afterwards, when they all recounted the tale of how that crazy man, as they’d all expected and wished for, barged into Mister Schnee’s private chambers to tell him off, did they withhold the use of the “crazy” prefix.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mr. S, taking a moment or two to collect himself on the border of his bedroom door, was not completely oblivious to the goings on of the castle staff. And, after a moment of observation, deduced, with a certain measure of certainty, that it really didn’t take twelve prominent members of staff to dust one hallway.

Looking at the stern silence of the figures, as they stood inadmitably at their stations and worked away at their tasks… he felt himself choking up at the sight.

Perhaps his emotions were high with the recent stresses that had been put upon him, but... to think that the castle staff would have mustered such an effort, just to be there to greet him when he woke up in the morning!

They weren’t saying anything, or trying to overwhelm him with manufactured emotions or strained platitudes -- he held back a tear -- they were just _there_! And their presence, their consideration and care, was enough to move him. To think that there were people out there, almost like a family, who cared for each other so. He at once felt his sense of purpose strengthening; even if he was a stranger, he was still taking over a life, and the overseership of a thousand human souls and wishes. He didn’t know much yet, perhaps, but he knew he wouldn’t let any of these people down!

This, for Mr. S, was a rare moment of enlightened joy he wanted to bask in forever.

But then crazy Adolph came and ruined everything.

* * *

The morning, for Weiss, carried all the joy of a prisoner's last day and a graduate’s first.

“Wake up, Blake, Wake up!” She yelled, almost squealing like a schoolgirl on the first day of summer. Bouncing out of bed, she burst out of the room before Blake, she was sure, had the time to wake up. Sprinting two steps out of her door, she banked hard into the nearest room, slamming the door wide open. “Wake up!” she yelled at the pair of sleeping girls, notably, sounding noticeably rougher than she had been with Blake.

Impatient at the groggy pair’s millisecond delay, she picked up a nearby brass vase off the front cabinet and crashed her fist against the underside hard enough to dent it.

The sound it produced had the effect of sounding like a directional symbol, acting as the brash accompaniment to Weiss’s, loudly vocalized, “Wake up! Wake up! Let’s go; out of this place, out!”

Yang sprung stiffly up like a toy soldier, hair puffed wildly about her head like a golden dandelion. Beside her, Ruby squirmed deeper into the blanket, pressing a pillow down onto her face as she incoherently murmured her objections.

Yang blinked wearily up at the heiress, who shook the bed as she jumped up onto the mattress and only slightly reduced the vigor with which she pounded the vase, mostly so that her imploring, “Get up!” could be better heard.

Yang looked slowly about herself, awareness dimmed and uncluttered with detail as if she were in shellshock. In particular, the morning scarlet of the twilight sun stood out to her. Taking her confused gaze down away from Weiss, Yang turned aside to look at the clock and then turned back to face the heiress, tiredly saying: “Weiss, the airport isn’t open yet, why are you doing this?”

“I plan to take the first flight out of here, Yang, and the shuttle doesn’t wait;” Weiss said sternly, “I’m not going to miss it just because you can’t develop enough sense of punctuality not to require a portable toothbrush!”

“But the shuttle doesn’t leave for two hours!” Yang implored with a hopeless expression, adding, “we’d only need thirty minutes, at most!”

“Then we’ll stand in the bus station for an hour and a half,” Weiss resolved.

“You’re mad!”

Weiss ticked back, “Just... get up!”

Here, Ruby interrupted, muffling quite loudly into her pillow which was pressed against her face more for its opacity than anything else now that Weiss had stopped her drumming.

“What?” Weiss asked.

“She’s asking why we can’t just follow you on the next flight. You can take Blake ahead, if you want.”

“What?” Weiss was aghast! “How could you even suggest such a thing, Ruby! You’ve been clamoring to Haven for ages! Just think of a all the new and interesting weapons, you’ll see!”

Ruby only huffed resolutely and with stern disapproval against her pillow, pressing it further over her face.

Weiss, that time, didn’t need a translation.

“She said, Haven will still be there in-”

“I know what she said!” Weiss interrupted, “And fine, you two follow along,” sounding like a scorned mother. Weiss sprang off the bed, walking to the exit and replacing the vase with a casual toss along the way.

And, despite themselves, Yang and Ruby couldn’t help the pang of guilt that struck them at her tone of deciduous sorrow; a guilt which motivated Yang to yell after the retreating heiress: “If it makes you feel better, we’ll steal the toiletries.”

This, did not make Weiss feel any better.

* * *

Mr. S was only too glad, now, to have been tutored with the advice that he should use, and be mentally prepared to utilize, that aloof manner of person so caringly cultivated within the very indices of his new body's habit and being.

On the tail end of Adolph’s incoherent tirade, itself made up with a greater proportion of spit than words, Mr. S was indeed only too thankful that he managed to appear cool all throughout it. This appearance was only further helped by the surprised shock his body seemed to enter into at the sight of the man. Just, the very existence of him.

To be honest, he really didn’t look very much like any twentieth century personages of note, but… at the same time one couldn’t help but draw parallels.

The explosive dialogue, the brash fury, and my god that _accent_! Mr. S didn’t even need an introduction to recognize that this was Adolph. Despite this, however, the man had been kind enough to announce himself at the gates with the words, “Adolph wll not stand for such anargaghtp! Arrgagh! Schistokempfokenderostockwafenmachnachenbox!”

The rest of the speech was similarly comprehensible; although, as it carried on, Mr. S wondered if he shouldn't count himself lucky that that was the case.

Still, throughout it, Mr. S did manage to strain some inkling of meaning from the man’s words, gathering, mostly through guesswork, that he’d taken offence to his words at the gala.

The impassioned presentation, as all things, soon came to an end; and following it was a cold silence as Adolf waited with an expectant sign.

Unbeknownst to Mr. S, he was standing at the focal point of a critical moment, as the twelve pairs of keen eyes trained upon him.

It had been a difficult, if ugly, mess of a job, bringing the matter to the house head’s initial attention. But, following Adolf’s breach of decorum, a wide avenue of precedent lay open for the staff heads to present their own, far more diplomatic, if still sternly worded ultimatums.

And, unbeknownst to Mr. S, he made exactly the right move.

“Adolf,” Mr. S said.

“Yes?” Adolf answered, as if annoyed at having to say even that much.

“You’re fired.”

And, just like that, the house heads realized that Weiss wasn’t even heiress anymore, so really, why rock the boat just right now? So what if all their counterparts from the other houses made fun of them? They’d just be expressing, with that very mockery, their own insecurities about not being part of House Schnee, the greatest royal house in the world! S.D.C! S.D.C! Yeah, that was it; definitely.

Among his castle staff, at least, Mr. S was, for the moment, secure from any criticism.

Elsewhere, scarcely detected, Adam Taurus had infiltrated the castle.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

* * *

Adolph, really, was just like anyone else. For one, he didn’t like being fired.

“What?” he snapped.

“You’re fired,” Mr. S reiterated, bolstered in his convictions until the man said, quite to his chagrin:

“Then, give me a name, Jaques! I will be out of here by sundown!”

Mr. S cringed at that request, because he understood it.

He understood that: unlike many of the palace servants -- who had their own names, and their own ties to the Schnee family -- Adolph was an employee.

And, Adolph, without a name of his own, was looking now to Mr. S to provide him with one.

“Name,” in this case, had been crudely explained to him to mean ‘last name,’ and it was often given out by royals as part of a standard work contract.

Such an agreement come about during the industrialization of Solitas, when there were many in the lower class with suddenly valuable technical skills who were looking for the backing and social capital of a royal house.

Thus, the concept of given names arose: Duke Pureblood won’t even _look_ at you peasants, much less finance your company? Well, do something for me, and you just might find yourself with reputable names.

This entire process was an unnecessary farce, of course, maintained only through inertia; but it _was_ still maintained, and therefore still necessary, at least as a form of social accreditation among the upper classes.

That didn’t mean anyone took it all that seriously, however.

Often, a given name could, letter for letter, be identical to the recipient's own surname, the only difference lying in the fact that some database somewhere flipped a bit and reassigned them as one of the cool kids.

Other times it was an utterly novel name that was just as mundane and bog-standard as the person’s original.

And now, we come to Mr. S’s problem: because, giving someone a name required a ceremony in which you actually _said_ the name, and Mr.S didn’t know Adolph's last name.

Now, of course, the remedy to this may seem, to the astute reader, obvious. Why, just pick any old, random German last name; it didn’t really matter what the name was, after all.

The second bit of trouble, however, was that: while there were a great many and wonderful German surnames Mr. S could have chosen from… right then, for whatever reason, he could only think of one. His strained thoughts turning what should have been a diverse cast of Bavarian surnames into a repetitious screech one would hardly expect to hear outside of extreme wing political rallies.

He stood like this for a full twelve seconds, trying and failing to force himself to say something appropriate.

At last, the cop out came to mind, “I’ll give you one when you’re packed and outside of the castle walls.” That ought to buy him some time.

This, did not sit well with Adolph.

“Vhat!?” he screeched, his accent creeping up to new heights.

To Mr. S’s surprise, Adolph immediately turned away from him, spreading his arms wide to address the surrounding audience.

“Do you see!? Do you see how the ‘great Mr. Schnee’ fails even to deliver on his simplest promises!? He has gone mad; but has that dimmed his sadism? No! It has merely blinded him to his true enemies!? Oh, yes, he turns on me now, but who will be next!? Who?”

And, to Mr. S’s surprise, he was starting to rouse them!

Adolph continued, “Oh, surely, it can’t be you!” he gestured to the watching heads of staff, “surely, your destruction is as unthinkable as a fanus being welcomed -- no, INVITED -- into such a prominent house by this-”

“Enough!” Mr. S felt the words roar from him with a voice not his own.

And, to his surprise, Adolph actually stopped, looking worriedly over at him.

“You shall have your name when you’ve packed,” Mr. S repeated, an icy, clipped quality taking his voice. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

Adolf turned away with a wounded expression, pacing quickly towards the metal gate doors. Quickly, he was followed by a rabble of concerned heads as they rushed over themselves to get out of Mister Schnee’s unemployment range.

* * *

It had been nice, at least, to clear the roster of one of the crazies plaguing it, Mr. S thought, carted along to his next appointment behind Schwarz, as Sieben trailed closely behind.

The meeting, however, was set to find him sooner than he’d expected, as Mr. S turned a corner and caught sight of Ozpin standing on the other side.

Ozpin caught sight of them from across the hallway, turning away from Glynda to raise a mug in greeting. “Why, hello there!”

“Professor Ozpin,” Mr. S shouted back, for once not having to fake the cheer in his voice. “How has the Atlas night treated you!” he asked, happy for the opportunity to use some of the stock, culturally permissible, greetings he’d been taught during his brief foray in the dream world.

“As well as the Atlas day,” Ozpin replied in turn, putting such a great sense of irony into it that Mr. S was left feeling that he hadn’t really understood the point of the salute.

“I won’t have the opportunity to enjoy it much longer, I’m afraid,” Ozpin continued with a down note; “I’m due to return to Vale tonight, and I fear I’ve already overstayed my welcome, in any case.”

“Heresy!” Mr. S laughed, shaking Ozpin’s hand and patting his arm in greeting as their paths met, turning to keep pace with the man. “You’re welcome here anytime;” he obliged, adding, after a moment: “although, I seem to recall we had some unresolved business as of last night.”

“Yes, that’s actually why I’ve come to see you. I’d been hoping to resolve this issue under more formal circumstances, but… recent events have not been kind to such a precise scheduling of matters, as you know,” Ozpin said, gliding the topic of conversation gently around any direct mention of Mr. S’s recent faux pas.

Mr. S grit his teeth at the pointed reference to his recent, monumental fuck-up and hastily resolved to change the subject.

“What exactly was it that you needed?” he asked.

Ozpin, was quick to answer. “Well,” he said, “as I’m sure you’re aware, Beacon sustained significant damage in the wake of the attack, and we’ve been placed in the unfortunate position of having to shut down until repairs and other such security matters can be brought to proper order.”

“Oh, wow, that must be terrible,” Mr. S said, trying to sound sympathetic.

“It hasn’t been easy,” Ozpin said straightly. “Thankfully, Ironwood has graciously agreed to host a third of our students at Atlas for the duration of the closure --” he took a sip, adding “ -- Haven and Shade have made matching proposals, of course.”

“How very generous of them,” Mr. S said.

“Yes,” Ozpin agreed, “the circumstances have not been kind to such generosity, however.”

“Why?” Mr. S asked. “Are they in danger of attack as well?” a probing lilt to his voice.

“No,” Ozpin laughed, “nothing so bad, yet.”

“Then, what’s the matter?”

“A population crisis,” Ozpin answered. “The faculties and schools are eager to take on the arrivals, their cities and dorm spaces: less so. This, in particular, has become the major issue in transferring our students to Atlas. “Atlas can grow to accommodate the students,” Ozpin rushed to assure, “they’ve been expanding their facilities in preparation for such a task. However, this is an expansion that has… slowed considerably, due to certain political matters. And, to be frank, Vacuo and Minstral haven’t been growing to pace, either.”

“Well, that’s certainly a shame,” Mr. S replied, asking, “but, how do I fit into this?”

Ozpin paused a moment, measuring his words before finally answering, mirthfully: “Well, you are the largest landowner in Remnant, Jaques. We were hoping you’d make available some hotels and other accommodations until the necessary expansions could be completed.”

“Oh, of course.” Mr. S shook his head as if encountering the obvious. “How many rooms do you need?”

“Oh, about four thousand in total.” Ozpin answered with a completely casual nature. “The particulars wouldn’t matter as long as they were reasonably close to school grounds; though, to be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t expect the living arrangements to last beyond several weeks; certainly, it wouldn’t pose a major disruption.”

Mr. S found it strange that this was considered the minor favor next to the “fall maiden” issue, but was careful to hide his suspicions.

“Consider it done!” Mr. S said, turning to face the man. “I trust that takes care of your official business?”

“That it does,” Ozpin said, smiling. “Truly,” he added, “I can not express my appreciation enough for all the help you’ve provided in these matters, Jaques. Should you ever need anything, know that I, and Beacon, are firmly in your service.”

Ozpin finished the sentence with a plain gesture and quiet bow, extending his arm to the side as he folded his cane in lengthwise under him.

Of course, despite the naturally subdued manner Ozpin defaulted to in presenting the matter, he really almost _did_ mean anything. Such a favor involving the transfer of a maiden was one for the ages, implying nothing less than the greatest levels of national and personal commitment in the repayment of.

This offer, Ozpin made earnestly.

And this offer, Mr. S made the grave mistake of accepting.

For, as all socialized peoples know, the only thing more volatile to a friendship than moving, was an unpaid favor.

A favor was a thing to be carefully cultivated, and not too much overused; to be let forgotten until such a perfect time as when it’s moment would ripen, and it would be remembered and repaid, and, in the instant afterward, vanished, forgotten.

To do otherwise would be to introduce into such a sacred concept as friendship, all the material muddies of debts, and reason, and reciprocity.

This, all people, on some level understood the necessity of; the illusion of love required it.

Mr. S, however, was an engineer, and elected to cash in. This, he reasoned, was not only a good way to balance the scales, but indeed a favor to the man, who would be able to rather immediately repay his debt, thereby be freed from the burden of such an obligation. And, to what purpose would Mr. S direct such power? On what pressing and important matters would he focus it’s great potential?

Why, to help his host’s estranged daughter, of course.

So, Mr. S fell silent in the aftermath of the acknowledgment, and mulled the matter over the course of a few minutes.

Ozpin, all the while, grew increasingly worried that Mr. Schnee had taken his words literally. More so, he was worried that the man was about to ask for a favor _before_ they’d ensured the Fall Maiden’s permanent presence in the castle.

“Weiss,” Mr. S said at last, “which school will she be transferred to?

“Haven, as I recall,” Ozpin answered, a horrid intuition developing in the pit of his stomach.

Mr. S felt a similar emotion, remembering vividly the nearly broken hearted and teary eyed heiress as she abandoned all pride and asked for shelter in the Schnee manor. How could he, after the promises he’d made, allow such a gentle, confused girl to be shipped off to an unfamiliar land in such tumultuous times?

“I’d like for her to be transferred to Atlas academy,” Mr. S said, not with any overt demand in his voice, but with such an incidental agreeableness that it highlighted how unthinkable he considered anything other than complete agreement and approval from the headmaster.

A worried look became Ozpin and he asked: “Is there, perhaps, anything else you’d like?”

“No,” Mr. S said generously, “All I ask is that my daughter be well taken care of.”

Ozpin felt slightly guilty that he couldn’t muster any -- more direct -- arguments in favor of what surely had to be a humanitarian issue of some sort.

On the other hand, the fate of the world was also a humanitarian issue, and so he immediately quashed that guilt.

“Very well,” Ozpin said with a satisfactory smile, “I’ll have her and her team transferred to Atlas immediately.”

Thus it was that, with a few whispered words, Mr. S irrevocably and indelibly rewrote the history of Weiss Schnee.

And, how did Mr. S feel having done this?

Quite guilty, actually; to have used his wealth and power to influence such things did bring some niggling doubts to mind. This was far overshadowed, however, by the simple wholesome good feelings that accompanied such a good deed, done for a young girl’s sake and well being.

Nearly imperceptibly, in the rear of the group, Seiben excused himself with a frightened expression; heading off to the side and out of the manor, he hurried to tell Weiss the good news.

* * *

Weiss and Blake stood lonely outside of the deserted airport.

They were alone because there was no one else within sight outside; and no one was outside partially because there was still another hour until anything opened, but mostly due to the fact that the Atlas Morning, much like the Atlas Night and the Atlas Day, sucked.

Shivering winds cut their way through the morning air, and Blake immersed herself in the quiet solitude of the empty street, glad for the timely privacy and awaiting departure.

Beside her, standing anxiously over their hastily gathered bags and supplies, Weiss stood in an arm-less salute, looking furtively at her silver watch-face -- taking momentary breaks from her disciplined observations to reassure Blake that they would get in early onto an empty ship, even if she had to charter one.

Blake, while appreciative, couldn’t help but be embarrassed at her girlfriend's worried doting.

Nearby, the smoking wreck of a dilapidated car frame filled half of the cool street with a hard heat and the smell of burnt metal: a monument to the city planners who’d built the airport in Mantel of all places. The car sputtered pathetically as the last remnants of its fuel burnt off; already, through the fading curtain of smoke that previously obscured it, it was apparent that the tires had somehow already been stolen.

Despite everything however, Weiss was giddy.

Today was a new day, after all! And she was breathing new air into her lungs! Ahh! That was great.

The panic would die down, eventually, she assured herself. Besides, though it may have been done a bit more roughly than she intended, she would still be leaving here, so it wasn’t a complete loss! Well, perhaps her optimism was a bit overdone, she recognized, but It wasn’t so bad that a night’s rest didn’t invigorate her, in any case.

So, mission success.

In all, Weiss was glad, and nothing could have made her less so, considering what she’d been through -- not even that burning car wreck over there.

Sieben, however, approaching as he was with such a worried expression, could.

* * *

Mr. S walked into his office with a novel excitement, feeling as one might on their first day of work.

It was a different office to the one he’d been in yesterday. And, despite this being his first time in the room, what struck Mr. S most about the office was the aura of familiarity which seemed soaked into the space. Everything, from the generally worn appearance of the lightswitch, to the gracefully muted colors of the sun-bleached curtains worked to enhance this effect.

Mr. S almost breathed out a huffing laugh at its appearance. It really _was_ just another work office. That fact, made so readily apparent, really brought about a humble character to the room which, as far as Mr. S could tell, was the only thing humble about it.

Because the room was enormous, otherwise, fifty feet from end to end, fifteen feet front to back, and tall enough that a full-sized chandelier wouldn’t have been out of place: a feature the architect must have taken note of, Mr. S thought, considering the full sized chandelier that hung down in the space.

The Chandelier was peanuts in comparison to the _real_ centerpiece of the room, though.

The real centerpiece in this case was -- get this -- a wall, made entirely of glass.

Now, while at this point the feature may have been more correctly classified as a recurring motif than as a centerpiece; it still managed to impress on its second showing, due to the fact that _this_ glass-wall was over fifty feet long. Beyond it, the distant horizon and snow-covered courtyard seemed to glow with the reflected light of the morning sun, and all but sang a medley of brilliant colors into the room.

Sitting almost directly beneath the chandelier, the desk was an island of wood and metal sunk into a sea of light-blue carpeting. And, truly, it was sunk, seeming to grow out of the floor it had been hammered into.

This, naturally, made rearranging the furniture cumbersome; but it had to be this way, for when Mr. S sat on the chair -- and the desk powered on -- a light charge sparked from the desk and down into the building, flashing directly into the numerous computer servers that sat housed, thinking, in its deepest reaches.

And, as the desk alighted with electronic activity, and the chair hummed softly to attention, and the computers and the devices and the decorations sprung to life, a thousand scanners and a thousand sensors trained their focus, and honed their sensitive apparati, and made the center of their collective attention, that space of previously empty air Mr. S now resolved to occupy.

And, truly, it was an act of unadulterated temerity on his part, to occupy that space, for no expense had been spared in protecting it, and in ensuring that only Mister Schnee would sit in that desk in the capacity of CEO.

Everything from camera systems, to artificial intelligence networks, to long-distance fingerprint readers, to electromagnetic blood-scanners, to heart monitors, to iris inspectors, worked in perfect tandem to ensure that no one (and by this meaning, absolutely no one) other then Mister Schnee would be sitting at that desk in any capacity other than as a fine mist. And, truly, no expense had been spared in the matter; everything had been done short of peering into his soul.

But, in the end, they _had_ been short in that regard. So it was that all of those readers and scanners and monitors and inspectors, worked to, with the highest certainty, identify the man in the chair as Mister Schnnee.

And so it was that the explosive devices under his chair neglected to set themselves off when he input his security code and began to access all of those files Mister Schnee had spared no urgency telling him about.

All of this escaped Mr. S as he leaned comfortably back against his desk-chair, swivelling from side to side to take in his surroundings as he waited for the various security codes to pass checks.

Looking down at the desk, he noticed more readily all of the finer details which had escaped him when he’d sat at its counterpart in the auxiliary office.

Mister Schnee, during the briefing, had likened the object to the helm of a captain's ship: the one place from which he could see everything and control nearly as much.

And, as Mr. S ran an eye across the thin, dark strip of material which ran lengthwise across the top surface of the desk -- and noticed the various buttons and screens and textures which mottled its appearance -- he could feel that he was beginning to appreciate the comparison more and more.

Truly, the comparison was more apt than even Mr. S would realize, for -- if one took enough trouble -- they _could_ control nearly everything in the castle from that one desk, and learn far more, otherwise.

And one aspect of particular note incorporated into the desk, was security.

For, it could with little exaggeration be said that Mister Schnee, when he sat in his desk, was the most well defended man in the entire world. And that security was brought, in large part, by the unrivaled awareness the desk provided.

As a thousand sensors pointed inward to look upon Mr. S, a million more faced the outside world, bringing to bear innumerable tripwires and fracture points which, together, worked to build a security model as real as life and ten times less penetrable.

For the sake of presentation, however, it was a radically simplified version of this model which ended up being coded onto Mister Schnee’s desk.

Simply, three, little lights had been inserted into the center of the black bar -- in order: Blue, Green, and Yellow -- as a visual indicator of the progress of any particular infiltrator.

Blue would mean that the enemy had breached the outer walls or perimeter of airspace.

Should the manor fail to turn away the invader, and should the intruder enter into the castle itself, the green light would activate, leaving a pattern of "Blue-Green" to flash onto the desk.

Here, in most scenarios, the intruder would have been stopped; their assault halted due to their sudden and tragic lack of solidity or life.

Failing that, however, were an enemy to enter into the secure, inner recesses of the castle, the Yellow beacon would -- in its turn -- light, leaving on the dark band a pattern of "Blue-Green-Yellow."

And, here, most complete briefings of manor security would have ended.

There was, however, a hidden, fourth layer.

Should the truly unthinkable have happened: should the enemy, having breached all defenses, and thwarted all detection, enter into his office, the very heart of the castle itself: then, and only then, would the secret light shine with its fiery, red glare.

This horrible sequence of increasingly broken defenses would be left, transferred, simply, as that unlucky pattern of lights: "Blue-Green-Yellow-Red."

That morning, on Mister Schnees desk, on the dark band which ran lengthwise across it, the red light sat alone.

It was an ominous sight, seeing that red eye sitting lonely beside the darkened faces of it’s brethren.

It was an ominous and horrible and sinister sight because the light could mean only one thing: that someone had broached every defense and protection of the castle, had mastered their way past every form of detection yet conceived of by man, and was now sitting, quietly hidden, in that very room which housed them.

It could only mean that that person, who had shown enough wherewithal to slip, unnoticed, by a thousand layers of security, who had shown enough deftness and skill to do so without revealing a single hint of their existence, had also allowed the primitive afterthought that was the room’s personal security to light the red light.

Someone was in this room with him, and they _wanted_ him to know.

Mr. S looked passingly at the discreet, subtly flashing, red light on his desk and -- failing to find a button which could switch it off -- slowly covered it up with the stack of files he’d brought in.

It was probably nothing too pressing, he concluded, opening up a manila envelope he’d brought with him and spreading its internals all across the wooden surface; anyhow, he had important, immediately necessary things to go over, like what the stock situation was like.

* * *

Ten Minutes.

It had taken Weiss ten minutes to get to here from Mantel.

To leave the airport, take a short-cut through Mantel’s gangland, depopulate Mantel’s gangland, go to the nearest tether point, take the trolley up to Atlas, travel to the Schnee manor, and navigate her way through the inner recesses of the palace before, eventually, finding her way out to where Mister Schnee was located, had taken her ten minutes.

Funnily enough, she couldn’t recall, really, the details of how it was she’d gotten herself here. It was a blur; all she ever noticed when she was in this state of mind were obstacles, and none had posed any notable hindrance.

Well, no obstacle except one.

“No,” Schwarz stood, statuesque and with her arms crossed, in front of the studied pair.

“Why not?” Weiss asked, huffing from her marathon sprint and brandishing her rapier as if it were an icepick. “He can’t be that busy. I just want to talk with him.”

“Mister Schnee doesn’t accept guests without an appoin-”

“I’m not a guest!” Weiss said through ground teeth, eyes flickering crazily while, directly behind her, Blake wrung her hands with a worried expression. “I just really need to see _him_ ,” she spat the word; “now,” she cracked the tip of her rapier twice onto the stone varnish of the hallway, sending a chipped, ringing sound echoing into its vast extent.

“I’m afraid-”

“Why don’t you just ask him,” Blake suddenly came forward, taking hold of Weiss in a restraining grip disguised as a hug. She’d grown quite familiar with Weiss’s mannerisms, and lately Weiss seemed less and less like a calm, rational person, and more and more like a high explosive.

“We’ll come back later if he says he’s busy,” Blake promised, pressing gently onto the heiress’s sword hand.

Schwarz looked into the girl’s harried, pleading expression and sighed. Shaking her head, she walked back to her desk.

Schwarz pressed the button on her intercom and Mr. S sat up at the sharp ring which flashed up from his work surface. Looking down, he noticed a small, violet light, flashing urgently next to a stalk microphone.

Mr. S pressed the voice button, setting it flush against the grey surface of the mic with a click.

“Mister Schnee,” Schwarz’s voice came, oddly formal, “you have visitors. Weiss Schnee and Blake Belladonna are asking urgently to see you.”

“Of course, let them in,” Mr. S said before promptly ending the call.

Schwarz blinked back from the desk, turning to see the look of utter glee which crossed Weiss’s face, as well as the look of horror that marred Blake’s.

Weiss immediately made for the stairs, stopped only when Schwarz interjected herself onto their path.

“Mister Schnee’s office is ten flights up” -- Schwarz began to explain -- “it’s the third door on the r-”

“Thank you --” Weiss smiled pleasantly at the woman “-- but I know where his office is.” She made to walk around the secretary only to find a hand extended to halt her progress.

Weiss, now scowling, sent a questioning glance up at the secretary. “Yes?” she asked.

“Your weapons,” Schwarz demanded, matching her gaze.

Weiss redoubled her attention onto Schwarz, indignant. “Surely, that’s just a formality!” she protested with a breathy air, trying to sound friendly.

“Your weapons,” Schwarz repeated, her voice hardening.

Weiss extended her arm out in silent fury, dropping the hilt into Schwarz’s expectant hand and quickly sprinting.

Blake, removing her weapon, found Weiss gone before it had fully left her hand. And, having dropped her weapon, and feeling Schwarz recede back to her desk, Blake looked heavily up at the flight of stairs before her.

\--

‘Tenth floor, third on the right,’ Blake recalled as she mournfully climbed the final set of steps and faced down the short hallway ahead. She found it easy to locate the room by dint of the massive doors that led into it, as well as the long, empty stretch of wall which framed either side of the entrance.

Pausing a brief moment outside of the wood-face exterior of the doors, Blake felt her ears perk at the fairly expected round of muffled yelling that bled into the hallway. A crack in the doors allowed the sound to escape and, once her eyes had adjusted to the bright line of light, allowed Blake a glimpse into the room.

\---

Mr. S was sat back against his chair facing down a familiar sight: namely, that of Weiss bearing over his desk, staring daggers.

“I’m not staying here.” She spoke with dreadful calm, fingers tensing across the overhang of table-top she’d grasped onto. “Even if I do go to Atlas, I’ll just be staying in the dorms, or a hotel, or in the streets, or somewhere else, not here” -- she raised a hand to gesture at her surroundings -- “so... I’m not sure why you even bothered.”

Her head tilted at the observation in a quick, strained motion of calm, an artifact of the harsh, almost painful, level of control she was maintaining over herself.

Because, whatever her faults may have been, a failure to learn wasn’t one of them; and, having had a night to sleep on it, Weiss realized that this wasn’t the time for emotional pleas or petty revenge. All she could do right now was cut her losses and salvage as much of her dignity as possible before leaving. So, she resolved herself and, careful not to yell, spoke with unnaturally stilted and robotic language that peaked at odd places.

Right now, her main and only priority was to get her point across as simply and unambiguously as possible.

So, of course Mr. S completely misread the situation.

You see, with the memories of her tearful proposal fresh in his mind, it seemed natural to him to assume that she was just worried that she wouldn’t get to stay in the manor. So, it was with the greatest relief that he assured her:

“Weiss,” he said a gleeful smile playing at the fringes of his expression, “if you think I asked for your transfer to Atlas just to let you move schools, then you’re sorely mistaken. I asked Ozpin to transfer you with the express intention of having you stay here, and, I realize this may come as a surprise after yesterday’s events but, you should put out of your mind any doubts about where you’ll be living in the near future. This is your home,” Mr. S said, “ and I intend for you to stay here for as long as that remains the case.”

Weiss blinked in disbelief. “You- you can’t be serious,” she spoke with a startled monotone, eyes fixed unblinkingly at Mr. S in just such a way that a person overwhelmed with happiness or any other particular emotion might.

“I’m deadly serious, Weiss,” Mr. S assured, crossing his fingers over the table and affording himself a respectful silence at the importance of the moment.

“You…” Weiss almost stumbled back from the desk, tripping over her words. “You can’t.” She managed to say, talking like she was running out of air.

“Of course I can,” Mr. S replied resolutely, working his hardest to sound earnest, to communicate that: no, you’re not dreaming, I am absolutely serious about this.

“No, no, no,” Weiss redoubled, “you literally, legally can’t,” trying to feel as certain as she knew she should. “I’m emancipated,” Weiss continued, voice weakening, “I can stay wherever I want. There’s nothing you can do about that.”

Weiss concluded her sentence on a questioning note, her clear face marred with worry as she took a defensive posture.

“Well” -- Mr. S looked up into a corner in thought -- “I suppose that’s true-” he began, and then immediately paused.

He stopped because the red light on his desk had stopped flashing. And, though he didn’t notice the light ceasing, he had noticed what caused that to be the case.

There, behind Weiss, now clearly exposed in the mid-center of the room, was Adam.

And, it was just at this moment that Blake arrived on the other side of the doors.

\--

Weiss jumped back toward the desk with a yelp, moving out of the field of view afforded to Blake through the narrow slat. Adam, however, was clearly visible, and Blake could feel her eyes narrowing.

Immediately, her hand closed around the open air where Gambol Shroud should have been, and her heart thundered, and her view narrowed as she took several, dreadfully quiet steps back.

\--

Twelve Hours.

It had taken Adam twelve hours to arrive here from Minstral; a continent had been traversed and favors had been called and vehicles commandeered and people intimidated; and all of this had been accomplished without a single word spoken on his part, every step of journey conducted through sheer rage and as much of that rage as could be expressed through stoic silence and peremptory gestures.

And every haggard mark those hours had left on him were plainly visible as he stood there on the carpet, legs in a wide stance and body hunched forward with a weary, though still tense, posture.

Soot blackened patches mottled his otherwise orderly clothes and fair skin, and a fearful aura of rage seemed to weigh on him, dramatically resisting his steady rise into an assured stand.

Weiss was scared; only recognizing the fact when her hand swiped through the empty space where her sword-hilt should have been.

Her eyes opened wide with horrible understanding, growing weak as, again, vainly, she reached a blind hand beside her hip, a jolt of panic running through her at the missing contact.

Weiss stumbled back at this, throat choked with unsaid exclamations as she tried to press back against a steadying wall that wasn’t there, her own alarm explicit as she looked at the man who should have been dead, all the while hating her own weakness and fear.

Adam was breathing steam, his mask doing nothing to conceal the frenzy of his eyes as he focused the full fury of his hatred on Mr. Schnee. And, for the moment… that was all he did.

A sudden silence fell over the room at this, a quiet so crisp and empty that it crashed into place in the intermittent pauses between Adam’s tempered breaths.

In the quiet and the stillness, Mr. S looked at Adam as if he were a painting, heavily stylized.

And, in the quiet, and the stillness, as he looked at the figure, Mr. S couldn’t help but feel, running violently through him, the most pure and unadulterated…

Cringe.

Mr. S converted right then to platonic idealism! He looked at the man and just understood that: whatever an ideal form was supposed to be, this guy was the dork version of it!

The worst part was how obvious it was that the guy was trying! Overly gelled hair that made him look like an airplane, a partially buttoned shirt that just screamed ‘I don’t put any effort into my looks’, dyed hair that made it obvious he put effort into his looks.

I mean, this guy had dyyyyyeeeeeeed haiiiiir! You know, like a girl!

The only thing his outfit was missing was a pair of aviators that he only wore at night. Of course, he outdid himself even on that front because he elected to wear a stupid mask instead; a mask that not only looked dumb, but had, Mr. S was sure, less than zero visibility; It had _four_ eye slits, not one of which was positioned over an eye!

He’d been warned about -- in fact he’d been expecting -- the hordes of crazy people that would gravitate towards him because he was rich. He’d been told that they would corner him in dark places and try to get him to invest in their start-up, or, alternatively, throw buckets of blood onto him; all this and worse, he’d braced himself to accept, but… this... this was just unfair!

There were minor celebrities -- not even famous anymore -- that were regularly stalked by naked girls and wealthy confidence artists; and Mr. S was now the richest man on the planet, so in what universe was this-!?

Mr. S’s musings were suddenly and cruelly cut short when Adam, with a slow hiss of metal against sheathe, pulled out the longsword he’d hidden at his hip.

Mr. S quickly stalled his flippant treatment of the subject matter when he spotted the weapon... and then started it right back up again.

He brought a sword! A SWORD! Oh my God, it was a Japanese one, too!

How quaint!

What was wrong with this world!? Every time! Every time he thought it couldn’t get worse-!

This, he was sure, had to be the height of hilarity! The look, the attitude, the SWORD! This mouth-breathing nerd! He’d even painted it red! Probably to represent the blood of his enemies or something gay like that. Hell, at this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d named the thing.

Adam -- in the meantime -- took a calming breath, looking down at the gleaming flat of his blade with an unreadable expression.

“Schnee,” he said, a dramatic, musical quality to his voice, “my sword” he gestured the object up “do you know… why I crafted it with a red blade?”

“No,” Mr. S answered, not showing at all the aneurysms he was suffering in trying to suppress his laughter.

“I suppose you wouldn’t,” Adam scoffed, “your kind are always... conveniently oblivious.”

Mr. S doubled over slightly, leaning a forearm across the desk, just barely keeping himself from dissolving into uncontrolled laughter.

This guy thought he was a movie villain! What was his back story? Did he fall into a vat of toxic boy-bands?

‘Come on, you’re better than this!’ Mr. S psyched himself up as he looked back up at Adam, coughing himself back into composure. He was still dealing with an armed person: he figured that, probably, he still had a responsibility to de-escalate, even if only to keep the guy from tripping onto his sword and suing for damages.

“Do you have a name, young man?” Mr. S asked, managing to retain some sense of decency.

The man answered hoarsely: “Adam.”

“A fine name,” Mr. S nodded respectfully, hooking his hands over the desk. “I don’t suppose I’d be able to talk you out of whatever it is you came here to do?”

“I came here to kill you,” Adam answered, voice veiled in a stony quiet.

“Have you ever killed anyone before?” Mr. S said, trying to reason with the man.

“So far?” Adam rolled his head back in idle thought, “ninety one --”

‘Riiiiight’ Mr. S felt his eyes trying to roll like bus wheels inside his head at the impossible figure, and wondered next how to approach talking with the man.

Really, he wasn’t sure what to do at this point. The guy was obviously crazy and decked out to do everything except kill somebody. Probably, he was actually here to dance badly while watching an eclipse, but that much Mr. S couldn’t have hoped for.

Adam took a hasty step forward, moving to walk around the desk and drawing, incidentally, closer to Weiss.

Weiss skirted back, keeping close to the exit as she crouched low in a defensive stance.

Mr. S stepped quickly out of his chair at this, putting himself bodily in between Adam and the girl, hearing a nervous breath behind him as Adam took another step forward.

Suddenly, the situation took on a dangerous gravity. Perhaps it had been the reality of his life as of late, or maybe it was due to the defensive distance his desk no longer provided, but Mr. S realized now that he hadn’t been taking this situation nearly seriously enough.

Despite everything, a crazy person with a sword was no laughing matter.

And, it wasn’t so much the potential danger of the man that caused Mr. S so much worry; rather, it was the realization that: if Adam _did_ decide to rush him, he’d really only have his gun as any measure of defense. And he really, really didn’t want to have to shoot someone.

“That’s enough,” Mr. S scowled over at the man with an unhappy tone. “I don’t want to have to kill you,” Mr. S said, “but that is what will happen if you take another step forward.”

Mr. S took the greatest care to ensure his words were laden with all the honest weight such a statement could carry. He’d never threatened anyone’s life before; in fact, doing such a thing to someone so obviously lost only left him feeling genuinely sick; but, this wasn’t a joke any more, Mr. S realized. He’d have to stop this guy before things got out of hand, and if it took a threat or even a bullet… he really wasn’t sure he was up to that.

Adam stopped his forward march. He sensed the sincerity in the man’s words, but, that hadn’t been the cause for his halt.

The reason he stopped, rather, was because of the cool voice which suddenly filled the air.

“You make so many threats, Jaques. I often wonder how you manage them.” The voice came from everywhere and spread just as widely, but seemed trained, in particular, to address Mr. S.

Soon, the sound localized, and a swirling, red plane unfurled in the space beside Adam.

From out that portal, a woman entered, moving with an innate confidence that belied her unconcerned stride.

She stopped several feet beside Adam.

Slowly, she swiveled that large, grotesquely masked, head about herself, taking in the upper corners of the roof line with a slow pan before, finally, focusing the four, monstrously colored eyes of her bone mask down onto Mr. S.

Mr. S looked closely at the woman. “I wasn’t making a threat,” he answered, externally confident and internally shitting himself.

For the first time, as he looked at the woman and the portal she’d summoned to arrive here, It… seemed apparent that he’d vastly underestimated the nature of the forces that had aligned against him that day.

Oddly, he felt his emotions seep underground at that realization. He should have been panicking, but as the woman unsheathed her own blade, and the hissing exit of the sword seemed, like a knife, to cut through his mask of calm -- he found that he wasn’t thinking of his fear.

Rather, he found himself considering only action, and, again the conflict arose as to whether he really would be able to shoot.

In actuality, that was probably a misstatement of his dilemma. He knew he could shoot… but weather he’d be able to shoot to kill-

Raven took a step forward and -- immediately -- he realized that the answer was yes.

He took a step back. His hand twitched for the holster.

In none of his worries, however, was there any fear that he could actually lose this conflict.

This was an undeserved confidence, considering the capabilities his enemies had shown, but, in the frazzled confusion of his mind, there was room only for instinctual fears and beliefs. And, at the moment, the centuries-deep cultural intuition of “bring a gun to a sword fight, trust me” won out.

Sure, their technology was a bit more advanced, but… he had a gun! Besides, his having a gun proved that the people here weren’t bulletproof in any case. Above that, he had the element of surprise; it’s not likely they expected him to be armed, considering their actions.

And, undeserved or not, his confidence showed.

This… gave Raven pause. His fears were plain but, in his eyes, there was also composure; more than there should have been.

Cocking her head, Raven spoke with an expression that was almost humorous, “That wasn’t a threat?” she asked, “I’m curious to know what it was.”

“I’d rather not have to kill you,” Mr. S repeated, mind stony from indecision, and unable to muster a better defense of his argument.

He answered openly, Raven noted, with none of the guardedness of a hunter. It was as if he wanted them to know what he was thinking.

And, looking into his eyes, Raven saw what that was. He was confident he could kill them, and he had...something...a trump card that they didn’t know about. Raven keely eyed her surroundings, looking deeper than she had at first. This place had worried her from the moment she’d started this mission, and... more and more, it seemed she was putting her life in the muster of outdated blueprints for this deathtrap.

“Oh, and how do you plan to kill us?” Raven asked, idly gliding her eyes across the room.

Mr. S, heart now thundering as the reality of imminent violence drew closer, and still mired deeply within his own sudden up-well of moralism, answered with surprising honesty: “one at a time.”

And, despite himself, Mr. S felt his eyes hardening, taking on that steely, cold look which so naturally varnished them.

Raven, for an instant, felt her pride rising up, but quashed it before even a hint of it could influence her thoughts. It was obvious to her that he was telling the truth, or rather, the dying flame of her sparked irritation added, that he thought he was telling the truth. On the other hand, It was obvious that he wasn’t ignorant of her own strength: she remembered, clearly, the sharp change in his composure when she’d shown up.

In fact, the more she mulled over the matter, the more it seemed that he knew more about her than anyone else in the world... Yes, when faced with Adam, he’d shown no sign that he was anything but in the greatest ease, but, when she’d shown up… he’d changed totally, as if it were only then that he was even in the slightest danger.

That… as much as it wounded her self-image to admit, was too great a credit to her. Professional hunters were all within the same range of ability: even Arthur doesn’t march against two men alone, the saying went.

No, the sheer range of difference in his reaction… could it be, that he knew she was the spring maiden?

More and more, Raven was regretting her coming here. And, more and more, as she looked over the indefinite figure of Mr. Schnee, she was starting to intensely dislike the man.

Abruptly, Raven felt her head clear, and, with a clack of her sword slamming into her sheathe, she turned away towards the portal.

“Where are you going!?” Adam demanded, turning his head towards her.

Raven stopped at that, moving only to look over her shoulder at the man.

Abruptly, Adam fell silent.

“The winter Maiden is near, and you’ve undoubtedly set off the alarms if her rushing is any indication,” Raven answered, with a tone that seemed to challenge further rebuttal. “I’ve brought you here, and I’ll do nothing more. If you want to kill him, stay and do it yourself; I’ll be closing the window in fifteen seconds --” Raven moved once again towards the portal, saying, with a determined finality, “-- with or without you.”

The last traces of her voice seemed to whisper, as they left the swirling surface of the turbulent portal, and Adam felt a rage flare up at the ultimatum.

Hurriedly, he looked between the swirling portal and Mr. S. His expressions grew wilder and his breaths grew heavier until, finally, his hand blurred into a ready stance and… letting out a harsh snarl, Adam flicked his sword in petulant anger, directing the blade off to the side.

From Mr. S’s perspective, the sword seemed to... flicker out of existence, disappearing from sight despite the overpowering glow that had overtaken it by the time Adam’s hand stopped in the abrupt gesture of a completed swing.

Just as abruptly, a curved slash exploded into existence on the face of the glass wall, and screaming shards billowed into the outside world, glittering, carried on violent vortices of wind which -- in a flash -- flooded into the office.

Gale winds howled loudly past the glass lips of the cracked smile which decorated the crystal window; a smile which was immediately obscured behind the screen of white papers that billowed up into the air and seemed to fill the entire world white before -- in an instant as short as the one which had raised them -- they drifted away to dissipate; leaving behind them a scene devoid of anything but the aftermath.

Adam was gone, and the alarms were ringing, loud and shrill against the backdrop of howling air-streams.

To Mr. S, they might have been as distant as the stars, with how much notice he took of them.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he walked over to his desk, putting his hand out to support his weight against it as soon as he was able, and thereafter lowering himself gently into the chair. He felt weak, and this facet of himself grew only more pronounced as he sat stiff against the table.

He was conscious that his body was moving with jerky, uncoordinated movements as he leaned, elbow first, against his desk, rested his lips against hooked fingers, and just sat there; sat there and contemplated his life choices.

The doors burst suddenly open, sending his heart into arrhythmia as he peeked his head up from his hands, looking tensely over to the scene as Winter strode in, holding up a gleaming rapier in a guard position.

She said something, he wasn’t sure what.

She repeated herself and, faintly, he heard Weiss answer: “It… was Adam!...got past security…!”

Security!

The word seemed comical as it came to mind. And suddenly he remembered Schwarz; she was the head of his security!

That, he remembered, had been the last of her jobs.

He felt a sudden upwell of anger at that.

Not at Schwarz in particular but… at the situation where a secretary had been put in charge of his security when there were people like _that_ running around!

And that wasn’t even her primary function!

He would have to have a stern talk with her about the security measures she’d put in place; possibly, he’d even have to fire the girl! He didn’t want to do that!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

Ahead of him, a deafening, almost painful, explosion rocked through the space, making the world go awry as it hit his inner ears.

It was quite an unimaginable noise, terrifyingly loud and brief for all that it seemed to rattle Mr. S’s jawbones.

The thunderous rapture deftly smothered all the alarms and all the noise within its immense mass, leaving behind a vacuous stillness, as if something had torn away the air’s capacity to carry sound.

Meanwhile, below him, an ominous tremor shook through the ground, running almost painfully up through his leg bones and leaving his soles stinging with darting pains.

Either side of him, cement blocks the size of bowling balls skittered across the floor like tossed jacks. The girls beside him, he could see, took only the slightest effort in dodging or outright stopping the onslaught of shattered bricks, some of which slammed in-contiguously into the metal front of his anchored desk.

Ahead, the thick cloud of rock dust cleared in the wind, rapidly dissipating in the streaming vortexes of air to reveal the ten foot wide hole which had been torn through the fifteen foot wide wall.

There, half kneeling, Schwarz stood in the center-point of the wound with two, white-hilted short swords in either hand. Violet aura flaring, swirls of dust played conspicuously in the air about her form; her face was an intense mask of barely concealed fury as black eyes went darting furiously in search of potential enemies.

Mr. S felt her eyes lock onto him for a moment before moving on to scan throughout the rest of the room, no hint of thought or motive behind her actions, or anything, for that matter, other than harshly trained instinct.

Mr. S, for his part, took a beat or two to recognize the expression that was drawn on Schwarz’s face, this being the first time he’d seen it without the accompanying camouflage stripes.

What he did recognize, however, was the truth of his earlier conviction: he really wouldn’t be able to fire her. As in, he was fairly incapable of performing the task while maintaining a healthy blood pressure.

* * *

Schwarz, of course, was all apologies.

“...I accept full responsibility for this lapse in security,” Schwarz bowed again, and not just to him, either, but seemingly to every servant and tramp that swarmed their way through the now crowded office, vastly delaying their departure as she did so. “Truly, I-”

“Schwarz, please,” Mr. S said, finally having regained the power of speech as he exited the office, “I could never even imagine blaming you for such a thing,” he said, quite honestly, "so, quit your apologies.”

As he walked to the stairs, flanked on both sides by monochrome pairs, he tried desperately to erase that eyes-wide terror he was sure had taken over his expression; finding no satisfactory way to belay the tell except by blinking more.

He was sure he was blinking too much, now.

And, it was in the brief blindness of one of those blinks that Adolf appeared, yelling.

Mr. S, physically, didn’t care what the man had to say at this point. So much was this the case, that his ears actually failed to discern Adolf’s initial exclamations.

“...What?” Mr. S asked, after a brief moment had passed.

“My Name!” Adolf requested. “My name, my name, my name, my name!” he gestured violently down with each intonation. “Give it to me! Give it to me as you promised on your honor that you would! Say it, and I will go! Say it!”

Mr. S wanted to say, “Shut the fuck up!” but honestly lacked the energy for such leaps of imagination.

“As you have been sworn to, say it! I will have my name before-” Adolf continued his tirade, and, as it was, Mr. S could -- in the panic of the moment, and in the confines of his rattled shell-shock -- only think to grant the request. Still, that nagging problem of association persisted, as did Adolf.

“...you shall not have gotten a servant’s due out of me for nothing, Jaques! What is my name!?” Adolf shouted, repeating, with a stark finality: “WHAT IS MY NAME!?”

Hurrying and not particularly interested, Mr. S threw himself to the winds and just spoke, praying internally as he did so: ‘don’t say “Hitler,” don’t say “Hitler,” don’t say “Hitler.”’

“What is my name!” Adolf repeated, cutting through his thoughts and driving him irreconcilably on to his goal.

So it was that Mr. S answered, at last, with:

“Stalin!” he blurted, waving with a flick of a hand.

It was only a moment later that Mr. S realized exactly what it was he had just said.

Well… at least he didn’t say Hitler.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21: The Old Walls of Mantle**

* * *

The old walls of Mantle streaked past either side; below, screaming rubber burnt against rugged asphalt as McGarnagle stomped the accelerator and rammed the wheel to the side.

McGarnagle fell against his seat, his head head whipping back against the headrest as the car turned. The suspension creaked and the front heavy vehicle kissed the ground as it drifted into the distant corner, the heavy frame tilting in the direction of the drift, driving the protesting vehicle into an arcing pass that just barely missed the ragged stop-sign as McGarnagle redoubled his grip on the wheel, and focused his gaze on the unbroken lane of road which now lay ahead of him.

Halfway along that road, a car in even worse shape than his own was accelerating, it's rear lights rapidly streaking through the darkness. The indeterminate shape of the car's rear bounced shakily along the pot-marked road.

McGarnagle didn't let up on the gas, and with every passing moment the rear-lights grew larger and brighter; and the sparse illumination of their lights grew more pronounced, touching the streaking snow with a dim, sparkling red.

They were both racing through the polar night, and McGarnagle was gaining.

McGarnagle took a steadying breath as the driver-side window rolled down, buffeting winds beat across the growing opening, and slashes of arctic cold made their way into the interior.

McGarnagle paid it no mind, focusing only on taking his breath before lifting his left hand from the wheel and leaning bodily out of the window. His body ploughed through the chill air, and his eyes were hard against the coming winds, but this, too, he bore no mind.

Taking his now free hand, McGarnagle pulled out his gun, took aim, and, exhaling, pulled on the heavy trigger.

Bang!

A deafening bark rang through the light, and a brief flash lit up the dark streets ahead of him.

The escaping vehicle leapt into the air like a kicked dog, it's rear tire busted, fluttering uselessly in the wind in the second before it crashed heavily back down. A loud, springy noise of breaking metal shot through the crystal air, and the machine seemed immediately to give up at that noise, it's tires stopping stopping as it's momentum carried it forward, awash in a stream of screaming sparks, to stop gently in front of the airport.

One of the sparks caught on something, however, and a small flame erupted up from the rear upholstery of the vehicle. Already, a group of half-starved philosophers* had made their way out of the wood-work, and were in the process of stealing the tires when McGarnagle showed up.

McGarnagle parked his car just behind the wreck. He could see a small flame had struck up across the rear of the vehicle, and was rapidly spreading. Inside, a vague figure could be seen struggling to escape.

McGarnagle left the key in the ignition and didn't bother closing the door as he made his was out of his car. He took steady strides across the patterned asphalt. The philosophers took notice of him immediately, their tattered clothes and blood-shot eyes flickered with the firelight as they dragged the last of the tires away. One of them hissed at him as they disappeared into the darkness of the alleyways, spittle of drug-infused foam dribbling down his cheeks.

Drug Use, Drug Possession, Theft, Improper Conversion, a living ordinance violation.

Crime never rested, it seemed.

McGarnagle observed the philosophers scampering down the alleyway, and he made a mental note to investigate the area later; report it to the hospitals. For now, he turned his attention back to the burning car.

In truth, the philosophers didn't spark any hatred in him. Pity, if anything.

Really, they were just another set of victims. Victims… yes. And, just ahead of him, struggling in the burning car frame, was their victimizer.

Like a hydraulic ram, McGarnage's arm punched noisily through the sheet metal; a quick jerk of his hand ripped the car door away with an efficient snap, leaving it to clatter heavily onto the asphalt.

Inside, a young looking woman of about college age was struggling with a piece of metal that had folded over her lap. The heating steel was kept away from her skin by the thick, padded jacket that she wore; still, a tense expression drew itself over her sweat-smeared face as the fire grew and, ominously, the heat of the metal began to seep through her protective covering.

Pleadingly, she looked up at him. "Look, mister, you have to help me!" Her voice was nervous and quaking against the howling heat of the upholstery fire. A thin mist of smoke streamed out into the open air as she looked over to him.

He could have made this easy on her. He could have put on a friendly face.

"Where are the drugs?" He said simply, his rough voice unfurnished and uncaring.

"Please!" She begged, wrapping her hands up in her sleeves as she continued her struggles, the metal having grown too scalding to do otherwise.

McGarnagle's silence was toxic, seeping into the air over the course of the next several minutes, watching as the heat grew and her pleadings grew, and, finally, as the tears came and she pressed, tightly, back against her seat, unable to do anything except keep as far away as possible from the glowing metal that was now charring her pants.

Pain and fear racked sobs tinted her voice as she looked up at him once more.

"The drugs," McGarnagle asked.

And, fearfully, she looked over at him with a crazed expression. Her false tears stopped and her frightened expression was replaced with a pain-racked simplicity.

Slowly, the woman, all but frozen stiff against the pressed back of her seat, reached out to flip out a hidden roof compartment. A bag fell and McGarnagle's hand flashed out to catch it with a heavy thud. Slowly, he weighed the dense packet in his hand, turning away to examine the evidence, turning to see it better against the firelight.

"This all of it?" He asked, turning to look back at the woman.

"Look, I have more in my apartment and several stashes throughout the city, ok? Just get me out of here!" She all but screamed.

* * *

McGarnagle's Report.

Night flights cancelled for the summer, increasing grimm activity made it too costly.

Silver lining: Airport was empty when subject apprehended. Again, no trouble getting a confession, despite unorthodox tactics.

Observation: Justice doesn't stop at stopping crimes. There's a duty and a pleasure to watching evil suffer.

* * *

McGarnagle was a vast figure as he stood, observing Mantle, from the rooftop.

He was a dark silhouette in a worn trench coat, face hidden underneath the shadow of a wide-brimmed fedora, and obscured otherwise by the high collars of his jacket. A thin reed of grass poked through this mass of hidden darkness, bobbing up and down with every tense and disfigurement of his tight-pressed lips.

His moon-lit shadow fell across the snowy street below, starkly defined against the darkened storefronts and shuttered businesses, engulfing the space as his thoughts encompassed the city.

They were dark thoughts, his.

Melvanova was a small woman; short in stature and with an affinity for curt language, she was one of those individuals taken up by her image. So much was this the case, that she often insisted on being called by her shortened name, Melva. In these, and many other ways, she was quite the opposite of McGarnagle.

She was a plainly figured woman, dressed in a tanned-yellow dress-shirt and wearing a brown, pleated skirt. Brown shoes and yellow socks completed the outfit.

Her hair was brown, and otherwise she had no notable features except… her eyes, sometimes, in the right light, seemed to glow with indeterminate color.

On her hip, a long dagger hummed, glinting as she entered into the moonlight and approached McGarnagle from behind, carrying in her arms an open box of donuts.

Tersely, McGarnagle made a note of acknowledgement at her presence, though he maintained a fixed stare onto the street-side below.

"Ya gnow, McGarnagle!" she said, holding up a donut in her hand, as if hitting upon a bright idea, "these are really good!"

She lifted the pastry out to him.

"Wan one?" she asked disinterestedly through a half-chewed mouthful of dough.

McGarnagle was unresponsive, and Melva only shrugged, taking it in stride as she took another bite.

They stood in a comfortable silence for the next several minutes until, at last, McGarnagle spoke.

"This city," his voice rumbled through with a grizzled tenor, "it's an icy waste of human trash. A civilization of drug-addicts is scurrying through the streets and alleyways... rats are nesting in children's cribs, and, when the morning comes, barefooted children will be crying next to novelty shoe stores.

"This… city; it's the center of a world that feeds itself off a thousand slave camps. It's the axel that feeds the murderers and weeps frozen tears for the murdered. It's a blemish in a wasteland."

McGarnagle stopped off suddenly, seeming weighed down upon by his observation.

Melva blinked. "I... just asked you if you wanted a donut," she said, shaking her head as a note of disbelief played in her voice. Tossing the empty box aside, she moved to stand beside McGarnagle.

"You don't listen," McGarnagle said, turning to send a sidelong look at her.

Melva, again, blinked. "Uh… you've got something in your mouth. Like, grass, I think," she pointed a finger at her own mouth to demonstrate.

McGarnagle blinked back in surprise. Looking down at the reed sticking out from between his lips, he spit it out. "Pta!" he hissed out a bit of air between his teeth, trying to dislodge the remaining bits of cellulose.

"Want a toothpick?" Melva offered, holding one out to him.

"Thanks," McGarnagle took the implement, biting one end and letting the other hang free in the open air.

"You know, you seem a lot gloomier tonight," Melva observed, a suspicious tilt to her eyebrows. "Have you been out all night patrolling again?" she accused, sounding very annoyed.

"I happened upon a criminal. I gave chase."

"So, what - you just go out every night hoping criminals are out?"

"There are always criminals out," McGarnagle said, a note of anger springing up in his voice. Deftly, he spit out the toothpick, replacing it with a short cigarette that he let play about his lips as he rummaged his pockets for a lighter.

"Everyone's a criminal in your eyes," Melva retorted with half lidded eyes.

McGarnagle pulled out a lighter, guarding it with a cupped hand as he pulled it up to his cigarette. There he flicked his thumb, and lit a spark, and the fire flickered to life in the darkness, revealing a grizzled face which seemed to cast unnatural shadows onto itself.

The light was brief, and quickly snuffed out, replaced by the dying red of his lighted cigarette.

McGarnagle took a slow drag and looked up at the floating city. "In the old stories," he said, "they told that the thieves had a king." Here, he paused for effect. "They said the thieves robbed their king, and robbed each other, and departed into the desert night."

"Where are you going with this?"

"The story," McGarnagle continued, "It's a parable about trust. To say you can't create a city of thieves. But, they haven't seen Atlas."

"Are you seriously suggesting everyone there's a thief?"

"I'm saying it's a city of thieves, and murderers, and slavers, and thugs. Good lives in that city, but evil rules it; the Innocent are downtrodden and freezing in the streets, and the criminals laugh themselves to bed. But life isn't a fairy tale, and the scum don't disintegrate into the desert. In Atlas, the criminals live public lives like royalty, even as they strip the innocent bare in broad daylight."

Melva rolled her eyes, mouthing along, now, to the familiar monologue.

"And, there, atop the castle that's atop the city, is the King of Thieves, and Murderers, and Slavers… Mister Schnee.

"All the people of Mantle look up to that city, and the criminals up to Jaques Schnee. They look up, hoping for rain in the drought, but all they'll ever get is a downpour of shit."

"Look, the sewage break was an unfortunate incident, but It was fixed. Could you stop trashing my city for five minutes, now?" Melva said, exasperated.

"There are good people in your city," McGarnagle admitted, "but evil rules there as well. Mister Schnee rules there. And as long as he rules Atlas, he rules the world."

"Also, I've been meaning to talk to you about this," Melva broached as if stepping into a sensitive topic. "But, you've really got to get over this Mister Schnee business; it's unhealthy."

"Get over it?" McGarnagle chuckled, a mad sound in the hollow of his voice, "get over the steam of crimes that have made him a hero of the city? Get over the wash of blood-money that's been streaming in ever since he took up residence? Get over the carts of slaves he's responsible for introducing upon the world?"

"I'm not asking you to get over that," Melva said, testily. "But, I'm just not sure focusing all your attention on him is even helping matters. I mean, how much can one man be held responsible for? They way things were going, every noble in Solitas was gearing to use faunus labor. If it weren't him, it'd be someone else." Melva spoke energetically, as if straining to get her point across.

"We had dust before him," McGarnagle groused. "And, these criminals. They're a cowardly lot, take out the head, and the rest scatter like vermin."

"Right," Melva said boredly. "And what happens when the next head comes up and starts it up all over again?"

"Then I'll take them out too," McGarnagle answered, "and I'll take down their successor, and their successor's successor, until they get the message."

"Ok, fine," Melva acquiesced, more from tiring of arguing than being convinced, "but, even if he is evil, he still hasn't done anything, you know, illegal. And, you kind of need that to make an arrest."

"If he's innocent, then why does he keep hiding?"

"Probably because you keep riding his case like a maniac?" Melva offered, tilting a hand in consideration.

"Evil doesn't rest." McGarnagle took out his cigarette, pausing a moment to observe it, before flicking it down into the alley below. "Why should I?"

The cigarette flew as a streak of orange light against the all-encompassing darkness of the alley, landing inside a dumpster and lighting it ablaze as he moved to cut a cigar.

And McGarnagle's face, curiously still shrouded in shadow, was terse as it looked down and felt the blaze reflected in its eyes.

* * *

McGarnagle's Notes:

I've made it a policy not to watch the news: too many lies.

I might have to revise that habit, however. Important events passed me by while I was out on patrol.

* * *

Over the horizon, the intense red of the evening sun peeked onto the scene, marking the start of a new day.

Down in the streets of Mantle, the people were occupied with their daily lives, the great mass of citizenry trickling onto the newly illuminated walkways and side streets.

And, up on the roof-tops, the night cops were patrolling.

Melva took the front, striding from roof-top to roof-top with quiet leaps. McGarnagle, now three buildings back, was falling behind.

She skidded to a stop on a concrete palisade, scowling.

It was a few moments later when McGarnagle caught up; not even having the decency to look sheepish, Melva noted with annoyance.

"You know," Melva leaned on a nearby radiator, "regulations say partners have to keep within a hundred yards when on patrol."

"I know what the regulations say." McGarnagle was annoyed.

"Regulations also don't permit officers to work more than sixteen hours consecutively," she said with an accusing tone, scowl deepening.

McGarnagle only turned away from her, observing a quiet stretch of street below.

Melva sighed piteously. "Look, you know I'm not gonna turn you in, but could you at-least tell me before you pull an all-night escapade? This is starting to affect my work life, you know," she tapped her foot impatiently at this.

Still, McGarnagle didn't answer.

Melva shook her head, walking over to stand beside him. "Is this about the SDC mine?" she asked.

McGarnagle was quiet for a while, but finally answered: "We had all the evidence," an unfitting sulking apparent in his tone.

"No we didn't," Melva denied shortly. "We barely had an anecdote. All we 'had' was some crazy faunus telling tall tales. Look, you can't get too obsessed over these things."

McGarnagle sprang up at this, an energy overwhelming his over-paved voice. "But the chemical explosives-!"

"Weren't there;" Melva finished for him, tilting her eyes up to look at his face. "And the residues we found were one-hundred percent inconclusive, despite how much you yelled at forensics.

"But, you know what, forget the evidence;" she turned suddenly, picking up her pace and her tone. "The whole case was shoddy on motive alone! I mean, even if Jaques is as evil as you say, what makes you think he'd be running an operation like that in the middle of Mantle of all places!? That was a bad case and bad procedure, McGarnagle! And, to be honest, I'm still not sure how I let you rope me into six weeks of that stupid investiagion!

"Though, I will say this:" - she cut through the air with a sweeping gesture - "six weeks was enough. We've gone through your little pet project for the year, and I don't want it leaking through into the rest of my life. So, please, could you stop skulking around at night because destiny didn't deliver the big man himself to you in handcuffs that day?"

Melva finished with a flourish of her hands, lowering them steadily afterwards as if releasing a load of pent up stress.

McGarnagle was stoic in the face of this, only looking off to the side with crossed arms for a moment before saying, just loud enough to be heard, "Sorry."

Melva blinked at this, her righteous pose deflating as she looked hopelessly over at him.

Shortly, she sighed mournfully.

"Look, you know that's not-" she cut herself off, thinking on her words. "Great, now I feel like the bad guy," she puffed a blast of air into her bangs.

"Look," she began again, closing her eyes in thought. "You're the best detective I've ever worked with, ok? But you sure can be stupid whenever it comes to this Jaque hunting hobby of yours. So, try to take a break from it once in a while?"

McGarnagle didn't answer except by an acquiescent twinge of his grim lips as he looked off to the side.

Melva took that as the best she'd get, falling into the decidedly uncomfortable silence which had come over the pair as they looked out over the cityscape.

Suddenly, a bright idea hit Melva as she turned her conspiratorially smiling face onto her partner.

"Wait, you said you were out all night, right?"

"Yes."

"And, you haven't seen the news yet?" she asked, an expectant lilt to her voice.

"I don't watch the news." McGarnagle answered grimly.

Melva only grew her smile. "I think I know something that might cheer you up!"

* * *

Melva didn't tell him, of course. She had far too-much showmanship for that.

And, what a show it was!

Below, a gathered crowd huddled around the large, public screen in the town centre, all but crawling over each other for a better look at the hologram.

McGarnagle had a good enough view from the rooftops, observing the apocalyptic tones of the reporter as she spoke grimly into the camera.

"Another hit for Schnee Corp. today," the woman spoke, "as stocks fall ten points below their lowest point yesterday, and are still dropping in the wake of this morning's assassination attempt. Board members have made a public call for Jaques Schnee's resignation, and a public motion has been made in the council to investigate…"

The news trailed off, cut off by a sudden impulse in the crowd noise, as the people reacted rather badly to a sudden and unexpected dip in the stock ticker.

"Come on, tell me you feel better," Melva goaded, smiling impishly behind McGarnagle.

"It's just gossip trash," McGarnagle answered, "not exactly worthwhile news."

"Then why are you smiling?" Melva retorted.

"I'm not unhappy about it." McGarnagle answered. "Besides, this means there'll be a police investigation - we can use that."

"Ugh, come on!" Melva said frustratedly, "could you stop thinking about work for just five seconds! This is history right here, just look at the stock!" She took one of his arms in hand, nearly jerking them off the roof as she stepped up onto the ledge to point at the screen.

McGarnagle shrugged impassively. Though, beneath the heavy shadowing, Melva felt she could see a slight upward curve marking the edges of his lips. "Stocks fluctuate, it's-"

"Seriously!" Melva jumped from the ledge to pace on the bit of roof to his side. "Don't try to hide behind that too-sophisticated-to-care facade from me!" she yelled with excited frenzy. "I know you're loving this! Come on, tell me what you really think!" she asked, adding, after a moment; You know what, be honest with me and I'll take back everything I said, and I'll even back you when you inevitably try to take this case."

McGarnagle paused at this.

"You really want to know what I'm thinking?" he asked.

"Yes! For once!" She all but yelled the phrase, holding her hands out in greedy expectation.

McGarnagle considered his words.

"I think that the SDC stock's just… - " he paused, fishing a pair of aviators from his coat pocket, flicking them open, " - bit the dust." He finished coolly, tinting the world black as he firmly secured the sunglasses to his face.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

* * *

Following the incident, as Schwarz had taken to calling it, everyone in the castle was evacuated to its below-ground compartments.

And, while great masses of people were crowded into underground theaters, rings or laundry rooms, our main cast was assigned a more intimate setting: The armory.

Into two opposing corners, Schwarz had made an impressive show of dragging several, multi-ton, turrets into place, set on a hair trigger and programmed to kill any living thing not carrying the required authorization.

All for their safety, of course.

The two remaining corners were occupied by people, and those people were occupied with their thoughts.

* * *

To say things had cooled after Adam's departure would have been putting it too mildly. Because, in that cozy room they'd been crowded into, things were downright frigid.

He recalled it had been during the early chaos of the evacuation, when Schwarz had been talking rather intensely with a castle tutor: her rabble of restless children lined up behind her with bright faces and stiff uniforms - that Mr. S first felt the pressure begin to weigh on him. So he kept silent, fading into the background as well as he could and standing, in awed reverence, at the calculated efficiency with which Schwarz had shown herself capable of orchestrating the chaos.

Servants mobilized, families united, bunkers set up, and all of it accomplished with disciplined formation, as if everyone were rehearsing a long familiar part. The entirety of the castle seemed aglow with purpose; and, conspicuously, Mr. S seemed to have no place in it. He was a lost stranger descending through an unfamiliar land, held aloft in a bubble of harsh order Schwarz seemed to exert over her surroundings. And no amount of hiding seemed to forgive him this deficiency.

Over the course of her charge, Schwarz halted - and dictated instructions to - various travelling crowds. In what seemed to be ten minutes, he encountered what must've been a thousand different faces engaged in a hundred similar conversations. And, in every one of those faces, _every_ _one_ , there had been some expectation of him that he didn't understand - some expectation that he do, or act, or _be_ something that he couldn't comprehend. Those servants, and children, and expensively suited executives, had all _looked up_ at him with an intensity and character he'd never seen before in his entire life.

No matter how much he failed to understand, however - he did feel an inkling of the purpose of it.

It was as if a thousand years of service was now coming due, and they were all expecting him, finally, to show them: what cause had history to hold men like him in such esteem?

Truth be told, nothing about this situation rattled him more than those looks, as well as the silent disappointment that followed in the wake of his continued silence.

Mr. S looked up from the floor, drawing himself from his lonely thoughts. In the furthest corner of the room, Weiss made a valiant effort of ignoring him as she paced around that little bit of clear space her friends formed around her.

And, between them, in the center of the room, Schwarz stood, talking very seriously, with Qrow.

Her voice was distant against the haze of terror that enveloped Mr. S.

Mr. S was beset by uncertainty, because he didn't know what to do.

Schwarz. Schwarz was pissed.

In one thousand years - that was fifty generations - no-one, _no-one_ , had ever breached into the inner recesses of the castle!

Empires had been built around the consideration that the Schnee Manor was impenetrable! Entire nations formed against it's unassailable defences!

It was no coincidence that, when Atlas came to be, it was carved out of the singular plot of land that had, as it's center point, the old Schnee Manor.

It was no coincidence that, when nations fell to chaos, they looked to the Schnee Manor to host their Maidens!

It was no coincidence that, in the mad convolutions of fate, History spoke of no certainty except the Schnee Manor's continued existence!

...

And now, in the fifth month, of the 458th year, of the tenth century, history would record that certainty had failed... under her watch.

So, yes, Schwarz… Schwarz was not happy about the circumstances. And before her, stood the man responsible for creating them.

"Have you identified a maximum range for her connection?" she asked, calm.

Qrow was immediate in his reply. "I was in the west wing at the time, so this would be the furthest from me she's created a portal."

"And, is there anyone else she might have a connection with?"

"I'm not sure," Qrow answered, less certain. "When we were young, it was just me. She may have made more connections over the years, but, she isn't one to make friends easily."

"Is there anyone else she may have a connection with?" Schwarz repeated, maintaining that terse, efficient voice they'd both adopted for the situation.

"She was once married to Taiyang… my bother in law," Qrow clarified at Schwarz's confused look, thinking hard about any other potential connections. "That, and she was Yang's mother, and she was close to Summer… Ruby's mother."

"And… you don't know if your murderous sister can teleport to them at any moment?" Schwarz raised a brow, incredulous.

"We don't really talk about her…" Qrow answered, rubbing his neck. "Besides, I'm not really home most of the time, so I wouldn't get the chance to ask anyway. Really, you're better off asking them yourself. As far as I'm aware, I'm the only one she can teleport to."

"And yet you persisted in staying the night in a security zone," Schwarz sniped, scowling over at the man.

"...Look, she's not normally this much of a terrorist." Qrow looked helpless, raising his hands in a defeated gesture.

Schwarz only shook her head in frustration.

Qrow looked as if he were filled with apologies, and seemed ready to voice them-

"Don't worry about it," Schwarz interrupted. "Just get out of Atlas as soon as possible."

Qrow, paused in his motion to leave.

"Yes?" Schwarz asked, already sending a message on her scroll.

'About Yang, if it turns out-"

"I will not compromise the security of this castle," Schwarz spoke curtly. "I expect you can understand why."

Qrow nodded shortly, and left.

Schwarz turned her attention to the corner where team RWBY had gathered.

And, despite everything, she couldn't help extending her sympathies.

* * *

When Weiss had been a young girl, on what Winter and her called "That night," during the few occasions when they felt brave enough to reference it, father all but announced that he'd only married mom for her name. He'd said this very frankly to his wife, at the dinner table, in front of her children.

...

When Weiss had been a child, attending her first day of school, she arrived hand-in-hand with a maid. All of the other girls in the academy, she'd noted with dispassion, had been accompanied by their mothers. Mother's drinking was worse in those early days. Experience brought competency, Weiss supposed.

Over time, her mother learned from that experience, and Weiss learned from her mother.

So, when she met her teammates… her friends, and Blake... it… she felt happy, for the first time since her fight with Winter. It was a time when she thought that, maybe, her interim years after her childhood could just fade away like a bad nightmare.

But Weiss, now, saw that it was time to wake up.

There were some hard truths she had to fess up to. For one, she'd be staying in the castle for the foreseeable future. It was either that or she'd be going out playing cat and mouse with Adam until one of them died. That, was an unavoidable necessity, she forced herself to accept. The second hard truth was something she - with a bit of work - might be able to avert. She'd just need to keep her friends getting in the way first.

That was something she could manage, Weiss thought. First, she'd need to tell them about it, though; shock them with it's intensity.

She'd have to tell them:

"We're not going to be together," Weiss announced suddenly, fatalistic.

Weiss didn't varnish her words; and, as if recalling a play, she saw surprise taking its desired effect on the faces of team RWBY.

"Weiss, what are you talking about?" That was Ruby, looking classically strong and taking the news as if it were a simple problem to be solved.

"Schwarz," Weiss said in answer, "she'll be kicking you out soon."

Yang scrunched her brows "But, why-?"

"Just, think about it for one moment!" Weiss interrupted with an impassioned, judgmental trill. "The only reason Adam got in here was because of Raven! And, if you're to be believed" - Weiss spoke, again, as if to cast aspersions - "then the only reason Raven could make a portal here was because of you! Do you honestly think for one moment you're going to be allowed to stay here!"

Yang recoiled back, smarting with defensive pride. It was a natural reaction to being accused of not only being slow, but a skien as well. And, in a way, that was exactly where Weiss wanted her. It was so much harder to think clearly under pressure.

Impressively, Yang kept a professional stance, and responded rationally, if hotly and predictably: "Then, I'll leave! I don't see what that has to do with you-"

"You idiot!" Weiss claimed hotly, and, despite herself, she could feel the emotions now coming from a real place. "It has everything to do with us! Do you honestly think we'd let you go out there-"

"Yes!" This time it was Yang's turn to anger. "I do expect you to stay here, because Adam's after you and Blake, not-"

"He'll attack you anyway." Weiss spoke with abject coldness, cutting off any of Yang's potential replies. "And, frankly, he'll have an easy time of it."

That, Weiss could see, had finally gotten the better of her.

"Are you trying to say-!" Yang was sputtering, and easily interrupted.

"I'm _trying_ to say, Yang, that you're a secondary target. If you and Ruby were about to be killed, do you honestly think Blake and I would hesitate to come after you?"

"What does Ruby have to do with this!" Yang reared up, eyes flaring.

Despite the obvious pain and rage the thought of Ruby's death conjured up in Yang, Weiss found herself feeling almost a sense of relief.

Weiss put a calculated pause, letting Yang stew for a moment before - tilting her head - she asked: "Did you honestly think Ruby would choose to stay here if you left?"

Yang turned to look at Ruby.

Ruby looked uncertainly back.

In any other circumstance, she could easily have imagined Ruby - smiling with all the confident energy that only she could muster - packing away with her sister as they waved back and promised to write letters. Perhaps, in a calmer air, they would have felt excited to take their chances with Qrow.

Here and now, however, Weiss felt confident because she recognized the look in Yang's eye.

So fresh after the shock of Weiss premonitions of death, Yang was lapsing, easily, into that self-justified tyranny of overprotectiveness she'd seen Ruby chafe under before, and was now looking to Ruby for unquestioning support in an argument she wasn't even aware she'd been drawn into.

And Ruby, for her part, wasn't giving Yang the answers she wanted.

All of this was transmitted, crudely and without words, between them in an instant.

Of course, this was a temporary misunderstanding at best. Knowing them, it would be taken care of in minutes of earnest conversation if they didn't postpone it. But, as Weiss had timed it, at the very peak of their tension, just as that argument was about to break, Schwarz arrived.

* * *

Like so many decisions taken under duress, this one, too, was quickly regretted.

"No." Weiss was uncompromising despite the relaxed pose she took in her recliner, a recent habit. It wasn't an affected composure, either. Because, now - at this moment - Weiss felt very sure of herself. and had little trouble steering the conversation.

"What do you mean!?" Yang was frantic, pacing restlessly back and forth. "Of course we have to tell her!"

"What would that accomplish, Yang? Not only would you get kicked out, but I doubt Ruby would be allowed to stay either - considering we'd be admitting that we lie about security concerns - not to mention Blake and me."

Yang suddenly turned in her step, whipping herself towards Weiss with impassioned fury. "There are _people_ here, Weiss!" Yang said, no longer feeling the need to keep her voice low.

"There are people out there too!" Weiss hopped up from her seat, feeling her own fury rise. "Unless you're willing to recuse yourself in the forest, you don't _get_ a choice about whether you're a danger to people or not! So stop this pointless moralizing, would you? Right now, the only person you're being a danger to is yourself and your teammates!" Weiss was yelling now, too. But that was an act.

"So, what? I'm supposed to give up and stay here, then?" Yang recoiled from the sudden intensity of Weiss' words, feeling it very difficult to sustain her own position.

Weiss… stepped down slightly, and sighed with parochial sadness. "Of course not," she said, voice tuned with calculated friendliness. "You're strong, Yang," Weiss stepped forward, hands outstretched to place a light, reassuring pressure on her shoulder and arm, "and you wouldn't be giving up by staying here."

Yang looked dubious at the proclamation, but held her protests.

Still, sensing her relenting under the silence, Weiss continued. "Look, I know you don't want Adam… or your mother, hurting people. But, just think of what's already happened: They've already infiltrated the castle; they had me alone in my father's office, in fact. If they felt they were in too much danger to do anything then…" Weiss trailed off, letting Yang's thoughts carry her to the final conclusion.

Yang, still, was being stubborn. "That doesn't mean they won't ever come back again."

Weiss sighed, speaking with a patient meter. "In any case," she said, "they're far less likely to attempt something here than anywhere else in the world. Not to mention, even if they do, this castle is _built_ to protect people, Yang. Everyone here is trained in evacuation procedures, there are security systems everywhere, and world class hospitals on every floor." Weiss took Yang's hands, and brought them up to her chest with earnest proposal. "Stay, Yang," she pleaded, looking up into the taller girl's eyes, "If not for yourself, then at least think of the people around you."

Yang looked away with terrible guilt, unwilling to say yes even as she relented to Weiss's request.

It was the best Weiss could hope for, she supposed. It would take a lot of work to keep Yang in line but… after a while, Weiss knew, it would become gradually less and less palatable to reveal the lie.

And, a while longer after that, it wouldn't even be considered a lie anymore. It would just be one of those things they kept in confidence and didn't think about.

She'd just… have to keep her from talking to Ruby too much until then. She knew how to do that, of course. Keeping people from talking, or at least talking about personal issues was child's play, especially when they were both on edge and let their guard down around you.

Weiss discarded the rising turmoil she felt within herself.

In any case, it was very clear what she had to do.

No… she reflected a moment: that was a lie. In her life, it seemed she hardly ever knew what the right thing to do was. And the less sure she became, the more strongly she acted.

She just didn't want to lose her friends.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the very recently renamed Mount-Doom, an anxious silence had fallen in meeting room B-12.

It was a very long table they were all seated at. It's length, in characteristic fashion for their host, dwarfed the size of their group. All nine of them seemed clustered against the limit of one end while the rest of the dark, obsidian tabletop stretched cavernously out to the far edge of the chamber.

The two, long walls of the room were lined with tall, glass windows, affording comforting views out into the blasted hell-scape that surrounded Mount-Doom. The vista did not bring comforting associations to Cinder who, to her barely-concealed agitation, was sitting just one space away from the head of the table.

Mercury and Emerald took the two places to the left of her, having almost had a fight about who would get to sit furthest away from her. Emerald, with some harsh words, had been convinced to sit next to her and end the potentially embarrassing scene, not that Cinder cared much about embarrassment anymore. Beyond Mercury, a soft spoken mountain of a man, who's name she'd never bothered to learn, sat next to Dr. Watts.

On the other side of the table, a various rouge's gallery of people she either hated or couldn't care less about were waiting. Directly across from her, sitting to the right of the head chair, was one of the people she hated.

Torchwick's impetuously smiling features, stirred up hateful memories in her.

All this time, Cinder had wondered why Torchwick - when they'd first been introduced to each other in the presence of Salem - had been so… respectful.

"I'll be glad to serve under your guidance," he'd said, taking his hat off to her.

He'd been unfailingly polite, and hadn't put up half the challenge she thought he would for the leadership position. This hardly changed his behaviour out in the field; no, out there he was as insubordinate and annoying as always.

But, still, it had been a running mystery to her why he'd folded so quickly in the first place.

Well… now Cinder thought she understood.

Because it was all nice to be in charge two months ago. But now, when the Vale invasion had failed disastrously, and The Plan had been set back for years, and the White Fang was in disarray, and every-one was now sitting stone silent in a meeting room, waiting for Salem to come in and murder the person responsible… Cinder felt considerably less cheerily about the prospects.

She looked once again at Torchwick, observing him, watching that self satisfied grin at how he wasn't accountable.

He probably knew all along, didn't he? He knew how much it would suck if the plan failed! He knew no amount of leadership perks were worth that possibility!

The weasel, he was probably just in it for the money. He probably didn't even really care about The Plan at all! And, just because he was a greedy, uncommitted asshole, he would be getting off scot free while Cinder - who had given her soul to this operation - was sitting here taking bets on whether she'd still be alive twenty minutes from now!

The silence dragged into its fourth hour and Cinder felt her soul sinking deeper.

Nervously, Cinder resisted the urge to look at the overhead wall-clock. There was no need to show any impatience; that would be rude, to imply that Salem was in any way inconveniencing them by being late. Still, she hazarded a glance at her compatriots. All of them, without exception, were shock still and looking straight forward. Likely they were all aware about the Vale debacle, and were unwilling to do anything that might draw attention to them when Salem eventually-

Click… Clack.

A series of slow, assured steps clicked across the floor tiling and everyone at the table, one and the same, was horrified to discover that Salem, as she pulled her chair back to take a seat at the head, was wearing a gentle smile.

"Hello everyone," Salem said, taking an assured seat in her high backed chair, "sorry I'm late, I just had some things to take care off. I trust you all had safe trips?"

If possible, the silence seemed to grow colder. Looking quickly around, Cinder saw that even Tyrian was creeped out…

Officially, this was worse than that time Emerald accidentally called her mom.

Watts was the one to finally break the silence. "It… uh, was a very uneventful trip, mam." He said, trying and failing to sound unfazed.

"That's nice to hear," Salem said, turning her gaze more generally to the rest of the group. "Anyway," she sighed, letting out a breathy air, "how was Vale?"

Again, there was a deafening silence, one that seemed to drag on for far longer than the last.

"Well, it uh…" Cinder felt her words slip like oil away from her very dry lips, "… uh, failed."

"Which part of it?' Salem asked. "The white fang's position was of secondary importance after all, as long as the CCT towers-"

"It all failed." Cinder said, feeling as if her stomach were working to tear itself out of her, "completely."

"Hmm, Shame," Salem said with some regret. "Any other news?" She asked.

Silence.

Sensing everyone's hesitance, Salem tried a friendly smile to encourage them.

Tyrian crossed himself.

Salem, astutely sensing the downed mood, worked to lift it back up.

"You know," she said suddenly, after a moment's silence, "we ought to kill someone."

"Um… pardon, mam?" That was Watts.

"You don't have any objections?" Salem asked.

"Of course not," he hastened to assure. "It just… seems rather sudden, is all, mam."

"Yes, but It's not as if we're in a position to do much else," Salem countered. "It's unwise to move too soon after you've been put on a back foot, after all. So, let's consider this a… break from habit, something we can do with no consequence, or great consequence; whatever may be the case."

Torchwick, who had, all this time, been itching to break in, took his chance with all the bravura of a scam artist.

"That's excellent to hear, your majesty," Torchwick perked, tipping his hat with the hook of his cane. "What can we do for you? Anything to help the plan? I have connections in Vacuo, you know? As well as some very mortal candidates for assasination." He waved his cane arm behind him, as if he were a carnival barker presenting his row of wares. "For example, there's this guy who owes me money-"

Salem looked disappointed at the suggestion, and, sensing her disappointment, Torchwick quickly changed course, adding: "And, if that's not to your liking, I also know several people who I owe money to."

Cinder twitched. The fact that she was sitting here listening to him try to use this as an opportunity for petty vengeance… well, she would have called him out long ago. This was, however, frustratingly unfeasible, because, right now, Salem was sitting two inches away from her, and, worst of all, seemed to be biding her time.

Salem was far more patient with Torchwick.

"No," Salem said. "I'd like to kill someone... notable."

"Notable?" Tyrian asked the word, as if having trouble with the concept.

Salem, as always, was patronizingly patient with the man. "Yes, someone everyone would know. Someone who's in the - what do you call it?: zeitgeist."

"Well, we could start with Adam," Torchwick said, casually flipping through his scroll, no doubt keeping touch with one of his many, vital contacts. "It's basically his fault we're in this situation anyway."

"Didn't he die in Vale?" Salem asked.

"Apparently not," Torchwich answered, and he flipped the scroll to present the news that had appeared on it, causing everyone to lean in to observe it.

" _Adam_ , managed to infiltrate the Schnee manor?" Watts asked with quiet incredulity, nearly laughing.

"Apparently," Torchwick shrugged. "I'm asking my sources about it," he said, turning the scroll to type rapidly on it before sliding over to a news article.

Salem was far more focused. "Why did Adam come out of hiding? It really doesn't seem it would suit him."

"Not to mention, it's gonna make pulling out of Vale harder," Torchwick tsked in frustration, flicking further through the report. "Apparently, the Schnee girl's dating his ex. Just announced it last night, in fact."

"Hmm, I didn't think he was into humans," Watts said.

"She wasn't a human."

"Oh…"

"Anyway, he's one option. He shouldn't be too hard to kill, not to mention It's hard to hide in Atlas." Torchwick said.

"Hmm…" Salem hmmd as if considering it, "maybe as a matter of business, later on. But, since the main plan's off the books, let's try… thinking big." She extended her hands out as if framing a picture. "We need to kill someone who's going to make waves and get written about in history books. Someone like… him!" Salem said, pointing at the back of Torchwick's transparent Scroll, and at the portrait that was projected onto it.

"What, Mr. Schnee?" Torchwick asked.

"Yes. I've seen him before, somewhere. He's famous, isn't he?"

"Well, he is the richest man in the world."

"Huh," Salem's eyes flickered in thought, as if updating her historical timeline, "… no matter, he'll do."

"You want to kill Mr. Schnee?" Torchwick asked.

"Yes, I've always been enamored with 'richest men.' They always have a sense of paternalistic order, of the type that I just find so satisfying to watch crumble. Besides, It'll keep the news interesting for a couple of months."

"Well, about that," Torchwick started. "The Schnee manor is rather… well, impenetrable."

"Then how did Adam manage to get in?" Salem asked. "That man couldn't organize the destruction of a single city."

"Well, he did have help from Raven, according to my sources." Torchwick said. "She ported him in. Although, even then, they apparently did feel the need to beat a hasty retreat."

"Then, there!" Salem said. "Torchwick, you'll get in touch with Adam and try to find this Raven character. Once you've done that, my dearest Cinder will... commandeer her to our cause." She paused to send loving and commanding looks over at Cinder. "From there, it's a simple matter of using her powers, but this time actually killing the fellow." She placed a fist in her palm, smiling as if crushing something, smiling.

Torchwick looked nervous. "Well, there is still the matter of the castle."

"Then you'll attack him when he's outside of the castle, if you're so worried about it. But, this is really just a weekend project, you know, I'm not asking you to do anything _too_ difficult, am I?"

"I suppose n-"

"Aren't you mad!" Cinder suddenly spoke up, feeling assured that, whatever the outcome, she'd rather rush to it than wallow in this confusing uncertainty. "I mean, The Plan's ruined!" She said, feeling increasingly that Salem's stubborn refusal to just kill her and get it over with, was more unbearable than her mortification at what she'd thrust herself into doing.

Salem, at first, looked confused. But then it dawned on her, and she rushed to answer… with a question that is.

"Oh, Cinder," she said softly, "do you think I'm an angry person?"

"...Yes!?" Cinder answered, already committed to her suicide charge of honesty. "You've quite literally flipped this table with your maiden powers multiple times since we've met! You killed Ember because she was late!"

"I only did that because I was trying to push you to succeed, darling." Salem explained herself. "Obviously, it hasn't worked, so I don't see why I should continue with a failing tactic. Besides, that study I read about negative reinforcement turned out to have some implicit biases."

"...What?"

"What I'm saying, Cinder, is that I've turned over a new leaf. Or, rather, I've changed back to my old leaf. In that I've grown less and less convinced that forcing all of you down with threats is really the best way to operate.

"Besides," she continued, "I'm not really an angry person, Cinder. I just enjoy destruction. And, really, I get to do what I love for a living, and I've got some great teams supporting me, so why wouldn't I be happy?"

"But… then, what about The Plan?" Cinder said, feeling an up well of indignation. "It's ruined!"

"The plan's not ruined," Salem scoffed. "It's just been... set back a century or so," she said with a casual air, as if it were barely worth her time to make a more accurate forecast of the delay.

And at that, things seemed to make a lot more sense to Cinder, and she felt an intoxicating concoction of emotions running through her. On one hand, it… was existentially unsatisfying, to learn that her part in The Plan was far smaller than she'd ever imagined. On the other hand, that also seemed to come with a corresponding decrease in accountability.

Thinking on it for a moment, she wondered if Torchwick didn't have the right idea in the first place.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

* * *

In the field of police work, there were two great obstacles in the path of justice: criminals, and city hall.

That was the world, as McGarnagle saw it. And, walking as he was towards City Hall - it's looming walls haphazardly and illegally meshed with the outer fence of the Police Station - he saw very little reason to change his mind that morning.

"Have a good shift?!" the gate guard cheerfully greeted from her post as they passed through into the courtyard.

"Terrible!" Melva answered with a bright smile of her own.

McGarnagle was dour, hunched forward, as he scowled out from beneath the brim of his hat.

"Jeez, you could at least make an effort, ya know!" Melva commented around the popsicle stick running out of her mouth. "We're finally going after your White Whale, after all. I thought you'd be a bit more cheerful."

"The gate guard shouldn't have let us in without an ID. Could've been impostors," McGarnagle groused.

"Oh, come on, McGarnagle, no criminal could possibly impersonate your beaming personality, you know that."

"This isn't a laughing matter."

"Well, are you planning to go back and demand a background check on yourself?"

"...Later."

And, in McGarnagle's words, for the first time, Melva could sense that trying impatience which had driven them across the city to HQ. All around her, she could see the various groups chattering away with a note of energy.

Units were scattered throughout the lot, chattering, and all of them about the same topic. By now, everyone had heard about the recent Attack on Schnee manor, and the current topic of discussion revolved around what piece of the action they might be able to grab for themselves.

Of course, Melva felt very little anxiety as to what position she'd be getting. McGarnagle had quite a bit of influence over matters of local policing, and had staked a firm claim on anything Schnee related. It was, what those in the industry called, "dibs". And, to her surprise, being new here, it was a request the department respected. Of course, this was also to her chagrin since it meant they ended up getting swamped with regular floods of unaccountable accounting data from various Schnee subsidiaries, but hey, she thought it brought a lot of character to the place.

So of course they'd be getting the case. This was practically made for them. And no one had any cause to deny it. Well, except for some people, Melva supposed, and, would you look at that, here comes one of them now.

"Hey there, McGarnagle!" Graz smiled, saluting casually from the top step of the police station entrance.

"Hey," Melva felt her own smile dim at the sight, even as she stopped for the necessary fifteen seconds of small talk. McGarnage, shivering with impatience, stopped alongside her.

"What, too good to respond, McGarnagle?" Graz tilted her head to look under his hat, speaking all the while with an impersonal friendliness.

"You seem cheerful," Melva intervened, hoping to stop another incident.

"Well, why wouldn't I be? I just got the Schnee case, after all."

Chang!

Melva could hear McGarnagle's fist clamp closed at his side, a pained tearing assaulting the fabric of his gloves.

"Yeah, It's great news isn't it," Graz continued, apparently unheeding of the stone silence which had taken over the pair. "All I had to do was ask for it too! Oh, and I'd love to invite you over McGarnagle, but apparently you're being sent over to Kostrova this month? Sucks to be you, I guess, but Chiefs orders! Anyway, I'm sure you've got a lot to take care of, ta-ta!" And, with a flourish and a wave, Graz all but skipped merrily past them.

This news came as a surprise to Melva.

Still, despite its novelty, Melva had a feeling she knew exactly what was going to happen next.

* * *

"This is criminal!" McGarnagle said, pounding on the chief's desk, and causing droplets of coffee to splatter up out of the ceramic mug which had made its home comfortably among the various photographs and paperweights that littered the wood-top.

"The Schnees are _my_ responsibility, and this is _my_ case!" McGarnagle stepped back up from the desk, pacing dangerously back and forth across the lantern.

Chief Vermillion, to his credit, bore the tirade with all the composure that could be expected of a deafer man. And he replied, calm: "No, this isn't your case, McGarnagle, and it isn't your responsibility. We're running a police force, here, not a detective agency, so save the territorial boasting, would you?" Vermillion ran a hand along the bushy grey of his mustache as he spoke.

And, all through the sentence, Vermillion could see McGarnagle puffing up as he paused in his pacing, facing away from the Cheif, measuring his words.

"Do your promises really carry so little weight?" A powerful disdain colored McGarnagle's words, one which only grew as he whipped about to face the man. "I followed all your rules, Chief. All those years I spent working like a dog out in the streets only to come back here to watch you play politician! And I only asked for one thing!"

"And you have gotten it, McGarnagle." Vermillion was adamant. "I've sent you every reported crime and suspected wrongdoing of the SDC. I've even dug into Jaques' personal history. And trust me, it cost me no small amount of capital to supply you with that!"

McGarnagle turned away with a hot flourish, words rattling with rage. "Oh, you've always been in Schnee's pocket, Chief, but I never thought you'd take it to this."

"Are you accusing me of backing off my word!" Vermillion was a little more strongly worded now, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice. "I've given you everything there is to give!"

"You've given me nothing! Rumors and forgotten tax records! You never actually thought you'd be in a position to actually deliver on your promise, did you? So, when the metal actually comes to the fire, you give Graz the case and send me out to the tundra!"

"I know you and Graz have had your differences, but she's a competent officer. And she'll follow all necessary procedure, unlike you!"

"She won't even do the necessary research!" McGarnagle was gnashing his teeth. "Have you even seen her case plan? She's not even going to investigate Jaques!"

"She's not going to investigate Jaques, because this is an investigation against the White Fang, McGarnagle. I've promised to give you all crimes reported against the SDC, but this goes far beyond the bounds of our agreement. Remember, that Jaques is a potential victim in this case, I can't have you running around snooping through his personal records when we're supposed to be catching a real criminal!"

"Jaque _is_ a real criminal, and you're a man too blinded by greed to see it!" McGarnagle's voice seemed to fill the office, and strain under the weight of it's effort. "If this were any other person in Atlas, and we'd be investigating! But, you've got too much money coming from the man to do it!"

Vermillion felt his words scatter, but mustered a calming breath.

"Mr. Schnee is a patron of the police forces, but that does not compromise our promise-"

"Would you stop!" McGarnagle interrupted, "I'm sick and tired enough of your speeches when you make them to the critters in Ciry Hall! And I'm sick and tired of you, chief! You're a corrupt, decadent old man, who would have done more good retiring to philosophy alley than running any police force!"

Vermillion, having felt his old heart rate spiking up, lost his calming breath.

"That's it, McGarnagle! You're off the case!"

"I wasn't on the case to begin with!"

"Then you're off every case, McGarnagle! You're suspended! I don't want you within fifty miles of any investigation, and if I see you anywhere near this station or the Schnee manor, you're lammed! Now, get out of my office!

* * *

"You know, I haven't been to Atlas in so long, it almost feels like a different city up here!" Velma noted, looking up at the series of brightly lit skyscrapers clustered about the land.

McGarnagle was silent, stalking with heavy footsteps beside the woman.

"I take it the chief didn't give you the case," She guessed, pulling the lollipop out of her mouth, and twirling it deftly between her fingers in a neon blur.

"No," McGarnagle confirmed, "he didn't."

"And, I take it you managed to get us banned from getting within a mile of Schnee manor while the investigation is going on?"

"Fifty miles."

"Oooh, that's a new record, I think."

"Might be," McGarnagle said.

"So, considering that," Melva said, "I have to ask: what are we doing at the Schnee manor?"

To highlight the question, she deftly stuck her lollipop in the direction ahead of her, pointing out the rising, outer walls of the Schnee manor as they rose up to greet them.

And, piled around the walls like ant hills, were various police setups, ranging from tents to modified bullheads, and with various uniformed officers crawling around ferrying cameras and other investigative materials back and forth across the front courtyard.

"Hmm, the main gates are open," Melva noted with a curious tone.

McGarnagle, true to form, kept walking boldly forward.

"So, we're sneaking in, then? Is that it?"

"It's… suspicious that Jaques had four minutes of silence in his office before the alarms went off. Doesn't seem like Taurus would wait that long if he was really just there to kill him."

"What are you saying?'

"I'm saying it bears more investigation. Something big has happened, and I'm not content to ignore it."

Before Melva could respond, a voice called.

"McGarnagle! McGarnagle!"

It was a voice of malice mixed with happiness. It was Graz's voice.

Near the edge of the Schnee gate, inside the open body of a parked bullhead, Graz pulled herself away from the team of officers working on a computer, hopping out of the wide open sides and jogging over the cluttered turf with a "you're in so much trouble, now" expression.

All across the field, and up in the battlements, sharp attention was drawn to the scene.

"Stick close," McGarnagle whispered. And Melva complied, pressing herself up against the battered folds of his overcoat.

And, noting the distance, taking a breath, McGarnagle activated his semblance.

And the shadows lengthened over his figure, darkening and stretching themselves unnaturally over him, highlighting his features like a painted landscape at eventide. In every way, he seemed a walking embodiment of fiction. Yet, he was real, and he had the figure of someone trusted, someone true.

Just reaching them now, Graz slowed in her jog, blinking her eyes rapidly and shaking her head. "Oh uh… sorry about that, man!" she said, apologizing genuinely. "I just… I'm not sure, I guess I must've mistaken you for someone."

"It's no issue," McGarnagle growled back, walking slowly past her. The rest of the public turned back to their business, losing interest in the scene.

"Wait!" The sudden call from behind prompted him to stop. Turning back, he saw Graz looking over with a concerned expression.

"Yes?"

"Do me a favor, will ya? Keep an eye out for McGarnagle for me. He's not supposed to be here, and isn't one to play nice with the locals."

"I'll be sure to do that."

* * *

They were in the inner recesses of the castle.

In every corner, internal security teams could be seen rifling, door by door, through every crevice and hallway of the Manor.

And, it was here that McGarnagle dismissed the shadow, the dark aura receding to its more subdued form.

"You're putting it down," Melva noted.

"We're already inside, they'll assume we're with the rest of the investigation team."

"Seriously, I've seen you hold that shadow for hours, why are you putting it down now?" Melva looked nervously about her, noting the overabundance of castle staff that seemed to have concentrated themselves in the immediate vicinity.

"Later," McGarnagle said, pulling her aside to hide flush against a wall.

"What?"

"I can see him. He's in his office."

"Yeah," Melva said with a perfectly obvious tone, "I imagine they'd want to move him back there after a security sweep."

"I need to look in that office. That's where the attack happened." McGarnagle's voice was hushed, dream like, in fact.

"Yeah, but he's _in_ the office," Melva retorted.

"You go look through the rest of the castle. Try to ask around for more information."

"You're going to go into the office aren't you?"

"If he kicks me out, I need you on the inside. Go through the rest of the castle."

"Fine," Melva said with annoyed murmurs, and drifted back into an interceding hallway.

McGarnagle meanwhile, could see the bright interior of the office shining before him, a beacon of danger, but also of opportunity. Well, if that was a beacon, then McGarnagle was a moth. Still, he was a self aware moth, if nothing else, and knew of the monster that lay in wait for him there. And, as he trudged up to the office, the thought came: how would Mr. S greet him? Of course, they'd had occasion to meet before, but the initial greeting always somehow managed to remain a surprise.

Mr. Schnee had always been calm, even when things didn't go his way, but he was always, at times, surprisingly heated. He'd called him jackass, fool, failure and many other things one doesn't find in gentleman's dictionaries, but, still, he never failed to prelude those insults with a proper greeting of some sort. Of course, on the whole, Mister Schnee was most always civil, and usually he referred to him by his name, "McGarnagle", just like everyone else did.

This time, however, as he walked into the office, the greeting was more of a surprise than usual.

"Hello officer!" Mr. S said with a boy-scout smile. "How can I help you today?"

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24c**

* * *

Some have called McGarnagle jaded, paranoid.

And they’d be right to, because he wasn’t buying the act.

Still, that was no reason for excessive rudeness.

McGarnagle simply nodded in recognition, and went about his business.

The office was crawling with various officers and security personnel, all combing through the various specks of glass and concrete that riddled the area, and McGarnagle was chief among them in his investigations, as he strolled along the wide glass wall that formed a vista at the back of the room.

The formerly pristine glass was now marred by an obvious defect: a curved cast of plaster that obscured the view as it patched over the great wound Adam had sliced onto the window.

McGarnagle took note of the window, as well as the broken wall, and handing dust particles as he weaved in and out of the various adjacent rooms, which had been set aside for the housing of various VIPs.

And, much to his frustration, McGarnagle found little that hinted at foul play. No trace that Mister Schnee had been obviously responsible for any wrong doing.

Though, as he followed a trail of footprints out to a lonely corner of the halway, he found, sitting there, something a bit more substantial than dust-specks.

…

Blake glanced up from her crouched position, noting the unusual intensity of the large, trench-coated, man as he looked down upon her.

“Yes?”

Blake was sitting on a short bench, leaning back against an interior wall when she said that. And, somehow, she seemed to grow even more diminutive, hunching lower as a painful tiredness overtook her features.

“Blake Belladonna?” McGarnagle asked, his voice dark with implications.

“Yes,” Blake answered dispassionately.

And, slowly, the man crouched lower onto his knees, until they were nearly face to face. Lifting a long arm, he quietly brandished a small button that hung on the cuff, and then pressed it, slowly, so as to demonstrate the act infront of her.

“...yes?” Blake asked, a tinge of annoyance creeping into her voice.

“That was a jammer I just set off,” McGarnagle said, speaking hurriedly in conspiratorial tones, “it’ll shut off any surveillance within fifty yards. Blink twice if you’re being held here against your will.”

That… had taken Blake off guard. So off guard, in fact, that she instinctively blinked three times in order to process the information.

“I said blink twice if you're being held here. I can’t take three blinks as a witness statement,” McGarnagle said, as if talking about the most obvious thing in the world.

“I’m… not being held here against my will.”

“Oh,” McGarnagle almost looked disappointed. “Are you sure?”

Blake, again, blinked twice to process that information. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“You… are aware this is Jaques Schnee’s castle you’re staying in?”

Blake looked askance with a notable lack of wonderment, and said:

“Yes.”

McGarnagle only stared.

“Look, my exboyfreinds looking to kill me and everyone I love, ok?”

“Wait-” McGarnagle stopped herm “- are you saying that Adam Taurus genuinely attacked this place?”

…

“Well, no duh,” Melva said, kicking a stray pinecone off the side of the street, “of course Adam attacked the place. The newscasters could’ve told you that!”

“The Schnee Manor is not easily penetrated. It could easily have been a false flag.”

“I still don’t see what was gained by sneaking into the palace,” Melva scowled showing her frustration at the lack of progress.

“Certainty, McGarnagle responded. Now we know Schnee wasn’t lying to us.”

“Well, we sure are certain now!” Melva waved a hand in the air. “Certain that we have no idea where to go next.”

* * *

The rest of the day passed unventfully for everyone at the castle.

After the security team had made their way through, the people were allowed to return to their duties, and the servants rejoiced, and the employees feasted, and the insurance companies investigated, and the executives were given pay raises, and the window repairmen celebrated on behalf of the greater economy, and everyone lived happily... ever... after.

Everyone that was, except Mr. S.

Do you know why?

Because, Mr. S, when he woke up the next morning, was, once again, greeted by Sieben, who had been waiting for him.

Once again, Sieben presented him with a finely crafted breakfast, and, once again, this breakfast was accompanied by a waterbottle.

A waterbottle!

Really, though, it wasn’t the water bottle itself that worried Mr. S. No, that would be silly.

What caused him so much heartache was the looming threat of being poisoned to death.

Of course, technically, the problem was far from being an intractable one. Poison in his food? No problem, he’d just turn down the food, just like yesterday.

But… it wasn’t just like yesterday, it was in fact, far from being just like yesterday, because, as Mr. S was walking along the hallways between meetings, guided along, once again, by Schwarz, it occasioned to occur to him that he hadn’t eaten in two days....

He was starving!

And, internally, he cursed himself for ever before having used the word “starving” for what, he could now see, were perfectly flippant reasons.

Because he hadn’t known what hunger was back then, man! And neither did anyone else who’d ever said “they were hungry” in his presence either!

But now he knew what hunger was! What true hunger was! And wanted to stop knowing, quick!

Really, he paused his trainwreck of a thought, taking some deep breaths. This was really only as bad as he insisted on making it, he thought. He’d just take some breathing exercises and meditate to take his mind off it.

He still had a lot of work to do after all. All he’d have to do was focus on that!

He had a board meeting today. Tomorrow, he’d probably have to pull the company off of the stock nosedive it seemed to be going through. By the end of the year, he thought it might make sense to uncover the global conspiracy that had apparently stoked the white fang into engaging in a global race-war. Right now, though, he just had to assure some panicked investors that the world wasn’t ending, easy enou-

Oh, my god! He was starving! Fuck! Fuck! Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!

This! This was just the worst!

He’d remembered reading about The Sword of Damocles in Classic lit!

This was just like that! Except the sword was also a gun for some reason! And the gun was shooting poison into his food!

He was quite literally the richest man in the world now! He owned a thousand kine and a castle with world class restaurants integrated into it! There were airships delivering ingredients to the four eateries that inhabited this place! And, he, who owned the damn manor, was starving to death in it’s very walls like he was in a Sarah McLehlan commercial!

He’d have called it ironic if his Classic lit teacher hadn’t convinced him that he didn’t know what Irony meant.

Whatever it was or wasn’t, though, it was definitely a big fat joke, because he couldn’t eat money. Heck, he couldn’t even make an attempt because all of it was digital!

Why was life so unfair!

This, was the state of mind that inhabited Mr. S as he traversed the halls behind Schwarz.

And, this, was the state of mind that greeted Heinzel Lutz, as he intercepted them.

“Mr. Schnee! Heinzel Lutz, attorney at law!” He introduced himself energetically, standing just in the right place to keep them from walking around him. “I’ve been contracted by the board of directors of the Schnee Dust Company to inform you that you are being considered for retirement!”

Given his state of mind, one might forgive Mr. S for not caring.

Still, Mr. S was nothing if not willing to do things he didn’t care about.

**\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

So it was, he found himself, once again, facing a table-full of board directors, talking about something he couldn’t conceivable have forced himself to care about less.

“Let me make this short Jaques,” the head board Director, Schen, said, looking with his classic squint straight at Mr. S. “We’ve both been in this business for far too long. I know every trick you’ll pull and you know every one of mine.”

Mr. S didn’t bother to correct him.

“So…” Schen said, leaning back with a suddenly friendly manor, “let us compromise.”

Mr. S again, didn’t answer, looking stonily at Schen with his borrowed, shellshock, eyes, while, internally, trying to forget the fact that compromise sounded very much like cucumber if you ignored all the differences. Mmm.... cucumber. He could go for some cucumber at the moment.

Schen, trying to hide his disconcertiion at the lack of any response, coughed and continued.

“You--” he said, pointing at Mr. S, “-- will quietly resign as head of the SDC corporation effective immediately.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Mr. S could make out Heinel Luntz holding up a resignation contract, smiling.

Schen continued. “You will be furnished with a… generous severance package of One Hundred Million Lien, and will be free to pursue whatever object you desire. You will even be allowed to retain your stockholdings. And, after that, we will go our separate ways. You will not be harassed or even contacted by anyone at this board, and you will be well remembered by your colleagues.

“Think about it, Schnee. This is a golden opportunity. You’ll be able to leave it behind, and it’ll be as if the last few weeks never even happened!”

Now that, had actually managed to draw Mr. S from thoughts of food.

The offer, he could tell, was definite.

And Mr. S’s answer, was equally definite:

“No.”

Schen reared back in his seat, and scowled over at him with quivering lips.

“Then… I must inform you, that you will be fired come six months.”

“On what grounds!”

“As you know, Jaques, it is the privilege of the board to conduct a review of your behavior on the annum. That comes in six months.

“And, as you also know, it is the privilege of the board to fire the executive if he it revealed to have conducted two breaches of contract.”

“And where did I breach the contract?” Mr. S asked.

“The stock is down,” Schen said, “criminally so. While our investigation has not found any collusion, we are still under right to… review your competency if the stock devalues more than four percent over a year.”

“The stock is always fluctuating, and it will be back up!” Schwarz shot back, having all this time stood like a pent up pressure cooker, frustrated at the demure silence with which Mr. S seemed to be taking the flagrant accusations. “And what’s the second breach of contract?” She asked, aggressive.

Schen was quick to answer, a smile playing at his lips. “Why, you do not have liability insurance.”

“I have liability Insurance!” Mr. S answered, having, incidentally, looked over that bit of data during his research.

“But your term with them ends in six months. And you will not be renewing.”

“I will be renewing,” Mr. S said confidently, crossing his arms.

“Actually,” Heinel Lutz stepped in between Mr. S and the teleprompter screen, holding in his arms an ornamentally marked piece of paper. “I am also representing your insurance company, and, due to recent unreasonable expenses you’ve caused them, I am to inform you that your future premiums will be going up!” He said, with the tone of bringing good news.

“Give me that!” Mr. S snatched the paper out of Lutz’s hands, smiling confidently at the ignorant lawyer, who didn’t quite understand the levels of wealth he was dealing with.

Who cares if they increase it, he’d just pay it off, Mr. S thought, smiling.

Smiling, that was, until his eyes looked upon the ink and bulged, and he, in response to seeing the number, said:

* * *

Farbe was working as a maid today, wearing her brown patterned dress and carting along a cart along the hallways.

During her trip through the castle, she happened, at just the right moment, to pass by the meeting room in which Mr. S was talking with the board.

And, very indistinctly, through the thick wood of the doors, Farbe thought she heard, very suddenly, a voice that sounded distinctly like Mr. Schnee’s, saying:

* * *

“What the fuck!” Farbe said, relaying the news to a group of gathered maids. “I just heard Mr. Schnee say the insurance company is planning to charge him ten Billion lien a month, and he was totally calm about it! He didn’t curse once! I know I would’ve.”

Beyond the gossiping gathering, Mr. S was walking along, content to know that he would be going without liability insurance next year.

He was also content knowing that, in all likelihood, his chances of bringing the stock up to acceptable levels before six months was… not gonna happen.

Beside him, Schwarz followed, silent.

Still, Mr. S wasn’t worried, because he knew something the board didn’t!

A food trolly passed by him, and Mr. S could smell the apples, and the mouth watering vegetable buffet of perfectly crisp-

Back on topic, he told himself. He’d been finding it difficult, lately, to keep his stomach from his thoughts.

Anyhow, he’d spent the past day researching, and discovered something.

You see, Mister Schnee, personally, owned around five percent of the SDC.

The Board controlled twelve percent.

The Atlesian Government: fourty-eight percent.

The remaining fourty-five percent, as everyone in the world knew, was held in a private account labeled “Schnee Family Holdings”.

What Mr. S knew, after having had a look at the relevant, private, files, was that the “Schnee Family Holdings” account was, in effect, under the guarantee of a single individual: Willow Schnee.

Yeah, one person owned nearly half of the entire company and he was married to her!

Sweet!

Now, of course, Mr. S wasn’t blind to the marriage troubles between the couple, but he held strong.

They’d been married for over twenty years at this point, he’d just have to smooth out whatever recent troubles had gotten them into rocky waters, and he’d be in for a home run.

In fact, the fact that they had marriage troubles only encouraged Mr. S’s expectations.

Because, truly, they must have loved each other a great deal to stay together for twenty years despite those troubles.

And, now, all Mr. S would have to do was go to that woman, and inform her that, though they were having some issues, this was bigger than all of that, because he was about to get fired; and She. Could. Save Him!

At a word from her, all of this could go away!

Oh, what luck, Mr. S thought. Emergencies like this were just the thing that could draw people together and help them overcome troubles.

So it was that, upon reaching the relevant section of castle, he found the nearest maid, called her over, and asked: “Where’s my wife? I’d like to talk to her.”

The maid politely smiled with frightened eyes, and every member of staff around her froze.

Immediately, one of the small children ran off to spread the news.

For once, Mr. S hadn’t actually said something strange. This was an order everyone in the castle was familiar with.

It was just that Mr.S, when he said he'd asked to talk to his wife, prepared himself for a talk; everyone else in the castle, prepared for war.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25b**

* * *

Coincidentally enough, it had been the second maid that Mr. S asked: the one person in the entire castle who might be expected to have an intimate account of Willow Schnee’s whereabouts.

It was a good thing, too, Mr. S thought, as the Second Maid guided them through the back alleys and private hallways of the castle, because he needed to demand money from the woman, stat.

The Second Maid seemed deaf to his needs, however, because, as he followed the path she took them on, he began to notice the many unnecessary detours into the servants quarters she was treating them too.

What he didn’t notice, was the sprinting rush of activity every servant not in his line of sight had taken to, as maids and butlers alike rushed to remove everything in the vicinity that could be used as a weapon or otherwise be quickly converted into one.

And, let it never be said the Schnee house staff were unprofessional, for, just as the Second Maid guided Mr. S and Schwarz around the last corner, a pair of younger maids managed to turn behind the far corner, carrying between them an antique vase, as well as the faux-marble stand it had been presented upon.

Although, annoyingly, they had managed to overlook the line of antique weapons lining the wall.

Mr. S, oblivious of everything except the sudden sparsity and child-safeness of his surroundings, walked cheerfully on towards the gold-bedecked set of steel-silvered doors which guarded his wife’s bedchambers.

On the varnish of the doors, made out in streaks of precious metals, was a depiction of a willow tree and a cracked moon.

Mr. S knocked.

At his second rap, he heard the click of very rapid foot-steps retreating around the far corner. Looking to his side, the maid had disappeared, and Schwarz seemed to be standing several paces further back than usual as well.

Hm…

He waited for the customary fifteen seconds, and then knocked again.

And again…

And again…

And, just as he was starting his fifth set of knocks, the door suddenly opened away from him, and revealed the Head Maid -- Nannen -- standing on the other side.

Still dressed in her customary, yellow, dress Mr. S recognized her immediately from the staff files.

He also recognized that she wasn’t his wife.

“Yes?” Nannen asked, disinterested.

“I’m looking for my wife. Is she here?”

“She’s here,” she answered. And, somehow, Mr. S felt like that was meant as an attack.

“May I see her?” He asked, after several moments silence made clear to him that the woman wouldn’t be volunteering herself to the task.

“Apologies, Sir,” the maid curtsied with dispassionate tradition; “But, I’m afraid there are only so many demons The Lady Schnee can stand to face in one day. Besides, it would hardly be proper for a personage of the Schnee family to be consorting with such a...” she looked up and down at him… “picayune individual.”

Mr. S… wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that.

“I’m afraid it’s a rather important matter that brings me here,” Mr. S said, unfazed. “So I will be needing to speak with her.”

Seeing that he hadn’t taken the opportunity to fight, and struggling with herself, Nannen grit her teeth, and, as her duty demanded, greeted him indoors.

The doorway led into a personal level much like the one Mr. S inhabited, and it afforded Mr. S a short moment to think as he traversed the felt-lined halls.

You see, despite the clear and obvious virtue in his aim, he still found himself getting nervous and prone to planning. What would be the best way to ask her? he thought, running multitudes of opening statements through his head.

But then, he recalled himself back to reality. He was definitely overthinking it.

Things like this shouldn’t be left to impersonal propositioning.

He would just walk in, explain the situation, and propose his solution. Simple as that.

* * *

“Fuck off.” The words came with dejected apathy.

Mrs. Schnee was sitting in a high-backed chair, face down on her vanity desk.

Now, that response had come as a surprise to Mr. S, not least of which because he hadn’t even said anything yet.

Clearly, his plan would need rethinking. Because he was only at the “just walk in” part of it, and it had already fallen apart.

“Good Morning, Willow,” he replied, trying not to sound disconcerted.

“I said, fuck off,” she said, with an undercurrent of pain to her words as she sat up, lifting her white mess of hair off the vanity desk where it had previously been splayed about her head. She looked briefly at him. “Why aren’t you gone yet?” she asked.

The answer to that was obvious. Mr. S needed her to stop him from being fired and, as a consequence, fucking off.

So, quickly, he rethought his plan of coming in to immediately ask for favors and instead opted for a subtler approach.

“I… was thinking we could have dinner together tonight, as a family. And, I wanted to invite you.”

The words were heartfelt, and Willow, when she turned to look at him, actually paused for a brief moment before she burst into wild laughter.

“Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!”

“Uh-”

“Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! Ahahahahahahahahahahahaha!”

“So-”

“Hahahahahahaha!”

“I take it that’s a no?” Mr. S managed over the uproarious cacophany.”

“Hahahahahaha! Fuck off!” Willow said, managing the words in a jolly tone of voice. An improvement, if a minor one, over her greeting.

* * *

Mr. S was once again sat at the head of a dinner table, with very little ideas as to what he should do.

To his right, Ruby, Yang, Blake and Weiss sat in a row. Unsurprisingly,- with Weiss furthest from him.

At his left hand was his son, Whitley. And, to Whitley's left, Schwarz ate somehow very neatly, even as she simultaneously worked at her tablet.

Mr. S was dismayed to see Schwarz working. Clearly, the computer discipline had broken down in this household if people were openly using tablets at the dinner table.

And, with that dismay, came a flood of bad tidings, as Mr. S sat over his stew, stewing over his recent misfortunes.

The first of which was the fact that he couldn’t even eat his stew. Why? Because there were people trying to poison him! And at least one of them was a traitor in the walls.

“Oh, you’ve hardly touched your meal, Mr. Schnee!” The chef commented with a heavy french accent, taking the stew and replacing it with the entree. A series of waiters did the same for everyone else at the table.

Mr. S eyed the man with deep and grave suspicion. He never trusted french accents, even when came out of french people; and this man wasn’t even french!

“I’ve lost my appetite,” Mr. S responded politely, reminding himself of his second misfortune: that he hadn’t lost his appetite.

His stomach grumbled subtly, and Mr. S ignored the gnawing hunger as he held himself back from gorging, turning the rice around with his spoon while occasionally poking at the unfamiliar looking main course with his fork. The hunger had grown almost painful, now.

Granted, he was probably going to be begging for alms in six months, so at least he had time to get used to it.

Also, his nose itched, and he couldn’t scratch it because he was a person of class, now; a person of class who was starving, had a failing company, threats of assasination, no job prospects, and an itchy nose.

This, was not his best week.

He didn’t even want to have this dinner. But that proposal he’d made to Willow apparently made its way to the castle staff, and, consequently, everyone was gathered. Everyone, that was, except Willow: the one person he actually wanted to talk to!

But, you know. All of that... would have been acceptable. He’d signed up for it, after all.

No, what really kicked this evening from bad to unbearable was-

“Oh, would you like some table salt, fathah?” Whitley spoke, again, over the comfortable quiet that had just managed to settle itself over the table. Weiss, again, glared up from her plate. And, again, Whitely had to make a statement. “Gelato is so easy to spoil, especially when one marries it with… unsavory ingredients.”

Whitley glanced a pointed look over at Weiss, who was sitting next to Blake, and glaring over at him.

If Whitley noticed her seething, he made no show of it, looking expectantly back over at Mr. S as if he’d made a particularly clever remark they’d both appreciate.

-his son.

And, not only his son, but the current heir to the Schnee family fortune.

Mr. S looked down at his dish and wondered… at this point, what really was the harm in eating it?

* * *

It was all such a blur, how they’d been roped into coming here. Blake, still, only remembered the blur of house staff as they descended upon them and -- following some harshly whispered conversations with Weiss, during which, she was sure, some unspeakable breaches of conduct had been made -- invited them sternly over to the dinner table.

Blake didn’t mind that. Naturally, she was an easy going person, and she understood that they’d have to make some compromises if they were going to be staying here for the foreseeable future.

Besides, if she closed her left eye, she could almost pretend she was just having dinner with Weiss.

No… what bothered her was the food.

It wasn’t bad, by any means. In fact, looking down at it, and taking a sniff, the soup she’d been presented with seemed quite delicious. It was just that, instead of ‘soup’ the staff had referred to the dish as ‘consumé’ and, as a utensil, had given her a barbeque fork.

The dinner bell rang, and a quiet battalion of waiters came. One of them, a woman, took Blake’s consumé and replaced it with the evening entré of reticulated Bouillabaisse. This time, they had graciously provided her with a slightly wider fork.

Blake poked confusedly at the unfamiliar, Atlas cuisine. Quickly, she turned her eyes onto Mr. Schnee for instruction, observing as he poked confusedly at his plate with the wrong fork, unsure at to how to even pretend to be eating it.

It seemed, indeed, that Blake was a natural at this. Still, for some reason, Mr. S, at the moment, struck her as an un-ideal example, and she turned to look over at Weiss.

Weiss was holding her salad fork in a murder grip, muttering to herself and stabbing at her plate hard enough to shake the table.

Blake, with vain hope, finally turned her eyes onto Schwarz. Observing the girl for a moment, Blake shrugged, leaned back into her chair, and pulled out her scroll.

She felt a peace come upon her as she felt her conciousness submerging into the online world. It was but a momentary calm, however, as, pointedly, Whitley’s voice carried across the table and said:

“Would you like some table salt, fatha? Gelato is so easily spoiled, especially when one marries it with… unsavory ingredients. Really, I’m surprised you’d contend to accept such a weird arrangement of dishes. It seems like that would be the last thing you’d choose.”

Blake, even without looking up from her scroll, knew where that was directed. And, apparently, so did Weiss, who stabbed her fork with particular force into the table, splitting the grain with a painful creak.

Despite the outburst, Weiss was quick to regain her stature, and sat up in her chair with a pleasant expression. “Not everyone is as sensitive as you are, Whitley,” she said, sending out a stiff smile. “Besides which, you shouldn’t confuse acceptance with approval. After all, I’m sure you have enough experience with being the final choice.”

Whitley blinked back at that unexpected retort, the wind having gone out of him. And, smoothly, he sat back; that seemed, for now, to be the end of the affair.

Well, it seemed to be the end of it, at least, until Winter Schnee arrived, followed, surprisingly, by Willow.

Even more of a surprise, Willow actually seemed happy to be there, smiling daggers into the back of Winter’s head.

Smoothly, Winter guided the matriarch to the opposite head of the table, before herself taking a seat across from Weiss.

Weiss, far too jaded by the fantastic events of the past few days, barely mustered a raised eyebrow at her mother’s arrival.

Whitley, mustered a strike.

“Oh, how wonderful it is to see you, mother!” Whitley chorused from across the table. “Have you heard the news? Weiss and I were just talking about the castle dinery, it seems they saw fit to mix some rather bitter flavors into our gelato.”

Mrs. Schnee, sensing mischief afoot, and not willing to embroil herself in it, thought up an appropriately non-committal response.

“I’m sure the caste staff will take our grievances into account.”

“Oh, but not all of us have grievances about it, mother!” Whitley said, excitement growing, “that’s just what Weiss and I were talking about.”

“Some can count ourselves lucky that not causing grievance seems to be the only thing expected of us!” Weiss nearly stood to her feet at that.

“Is that why some of us insist on causing it, even going as far dallying about with obviously unfit-”

“Finish that sentence, I dare you!” Weiss’s chair screeched back, her body rising in time with the noise.

At that, Whitley paused, and then smiled innocently. “I was just going to say ‘gelato’, dear sister. Have you forgotten how to have a pleasant conversation already?”

Weiss sat back down without a word.

“Still, Weiss, you seem awfully adamant about the whole matter.”

Weiss remained silent.

“Why so quiet? You seemed pretty confident in your convictions earlier, so why not tell us about their wonders?”

Weiss, took her fork from the table, preparing to eat.

“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

“This is hardly the place to talk about that,” Weiss said, voice edged with constrained weariness.

“We can’t talk about gelato at a dinner table?” Whitley was incredulous. “Surely, you’re joking.”

“I’ve already said enough about the matter. I’m not sure why you insist on asking.”

Weiss’s words were tinged with caution, and she was quickly tempering herself.

This wasn’t for no reason.

This was because the members of the schnee family -- all but fluent in the craft of coding language -- were also all trained in the habit of, at all times, maintaining their awareness.

And, they all noticed, now, the hard rage which seemed to boil beneath the surface of Mister Schnee’s indelible expression.

Mister Schnee, as a rule, never showed or expressed anger in the presence of company. Those who knew him, however, knew well every feature of his rage, and every subtle mark it left upon his countenance.

They knew because that rage, they’d all learned at one point or another, was something to be avoided.

If the members of the Schnee family had learned the art of speaking poison, then Mister Schnee had mastered it; and it seemed as if there were no limit to the distress he could inspire with but a few whispered words.

And they all noticed, now, that, with every exchange that passed between Whitley and Weiss, that rage seemed only to be growing.

It was this anger, that Weiss worked to avoid with her increasingly vague support of her and Blake’s relationship.

And, it was this anger that Whitley tried to make her draw out, by continually forcing her to defend the prospect.

To Whitley’s credit, he had succeeded in drawing it out; and at no point was he as successful as when, at what seemed to be the height of his brinkmanship, he turned to address Mr. S directly, attempting to draw his favorable hand into their conversation.

“Anyway, father,” he said, turning away from Weiss. “You still haven’t answered me. Would you like any salt?”

“I’m not certain that Salt is the correct condiment for gelato. In any case, I’ve lost my appetite.”

Whitley, took that as a good sign.

“Oh, but surely you’d like something!” Whitley said, growing bolder now.

Mr. S, drawing upon the memory of his hero: captain Picard, was committing himself to being merciful and peaceful and… uh…

“Well, father?” Whitley asked. “Surely you must agree that this is not something to be ignored. We’re losing face, you know.”

“It is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose very much,” Mr. S said, drawing fully now from his repository of PG-safe Picard quotes, and holding himself to the conviction not to stray from them.

And then Whitley said: “Father, you haven’t made any mistakes. If anything it’s those mongrels at the dinery who made such an… unworthy addition to this dinner table.

And, surprisingly, despite everything, Mr. S kept his conviction.

“Shut up, Whitley!” Mr S said.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

* * *

Whitley took it in stride with an almost unnatural level of composure.

And, to Mr. S, that was the worst of it. The way the child seemed to weigh the admonition as nothing more than a bad outcome, and seemed to care even less for how his actions placed him in the eyes of others.

And, for once, Mr. S was unusually sensitive to the level of his ignorance regarding his situation. Perhaps, he gathered, this sensitivity arose in him because of his still wounded parental instincts, and, perhaps, it was that undercurrent of sadness that kept him from speaking directly about it. All sons, he knew, looked up to their fathers, and this child, he was sure, was no different. So, he doubted it would play well if he tried to change course and act like Mr. Nice all of a sudden. But, he also refused to consider acting as callously as he’d witnessed Whitley doing.

So, it was with great effort that Mr. S recovered himself in the ensuing silence of his outburst and turned to Whitley to announce: “Whitley, you are no longer the heir.”

That had gotten to the boy; and a sudden wave of silence carried through the various servants scattered throughout the room.

Despite his best efforts, it seemed impossible for Mr. S to be sensitive enough to the nature of his station. The myriad eyes looked upon the pair; and Whitley, eyes wide and nostrils arching, looked to be almost on the verge of tears at the pronouncement.

“May I be excused, father?” he said, voice weakening.

“You may,” Mr. S granted, and watched as the boy pushed away his plate, pushed back his chair, and, riding on quick steps, left the dining room.

Mr. S leant back in his chair in silence, cursing how he couldn’t even eat to take his mind off the sudden, revolting level of attention he’d gathered from the rest of the room.

Ruby, ever the disaster relief artist, tried to lighten the mood by changing the topic of conversation to something more child-friendly.

Politics.

“So, uh, Mr. Schnee, I hear you’re very rich.” Ruby said, awkwardly stretching out a conversational oar to Mr. S, who seemed to be on the verge of drowning in the flood of stares that had been trained on him.

Mr. S was very glad to take it, thinking very highly of the girl who’d extended it to him. “I’m not quite as rich as people like to say, but yes, I guess I am in control of a lot of money.”

Ruby replied, “So, have you ever thought of… giving some of it away?”

Mr. S started to think less highly of the girl, but consoled himself by saying that greed was only rational when talking to someone as supposedly evil as him. “Are you asking for money?” he asked, chuckling slightly.

“Oh, no!” Ruby hastily corrected in that soft voice of hers. “I was just thinking how much it might help people if everyone donated their money to a charity.”

“Oh, what a world that would be,” Mr. S said, speaking in that tone adults did whenever they didn’t quite feel like crushing a child's hopes that day. “I’m sure a lot of people would be benefited.”

Rejoicing at the unexpected sense of encouragement she was getting from the man, Ruby suddenly took control of the conversation like an excited waterspout. “Oh, I know! That’s why I thought of it!” Ruby said, chuckling shiftly. “Of course, I know people actually wouldn’t do that, because, ya know, we live in the real world! Haha!” Ruby said, rapping her knuckles on her skull in mock admonishment. “But, you know, I had this idea, that… uh, maybe the government could just take everyone’s money, and… uh, give it back out so that everyone had the same amount! That way, not only would it be good for the poor, it would also help society… because the government can just spend that money for everyone’s benefit.”

Ruby spoke the latter half of her manifesto with clumsily integrated professionalism, breaking up her words and motioning with her hands as if working with particularly stubborn clay.

Yang meanwhile, was gently acquainting her face with her palm.

Mr. S rapidly felt his opinion of the girl plummeting, because, as he mentally denounced it: This girl was a goddamn communist!

Of course, with his words, he was far more polite, not least of which because she was carrying a fifty pound sniper rifle.

And so he said, “Oh, you’re a communist,” like a mildly offended housewife.

“What’s a communist?” Ruby asked.

“It’s what you are.” Mr. S answered shortly.

Ruby raised her eyebrows, looked up, and mulled over the word for a moment. And, after a moment’s thought, she decided that, despite never having heard the word before, she liked it.

Mr. S, for his part, looking at the dinner table and seeing it filled with ex-terrorist, communists, and potentially, a traitor, decided he wanted out.

He thought for a moment about what to say to announce his departure, but, looking back at the recent history of him and his big mouth, decided simply to push his chair back, stand up, and leave.

Schwarz, not looking up from her tablet, moved to follow.

* * *

The men had escaped haphazardly from the arms store, carrying torn bags of dust, and shying away from the trails of exposed fire dust they left in their wake. One of them slipped on a muddy patch, revealing, by the slight imprints and hair samples he’d left behind, that he’d been a dog faunus. Possibly white fang, Melva deduced, eyes glowing as they traced over the invisible lines of conduct which breached out into the world.

McGarnagle stood next to her, intimidating at the passersby as if he were keeping watch.

Melva paid them no attention, focusing the spear of her attention onto the muddy patch below her.

“See anything?” McGarnagle asked.

“They came scrambling out of that alley,” Melva pointed precisely to the spot behind her, not looking away from the evidence. “Obviously they weren’t professionals, or at least very new to this.” She indicated the trail of dust that had spilled out behind them during their hasty retreat. “Possibly, they were White Fang.”

McGarnagle was surprised to hear this. The White fang had little hold in Solitas, much less in Mantel. “What makes you think it was White fang?” he asked.

“Dog Faunus,” Melva said, pointing to the muddy patch by way of explanation. McGarnagle, long familiar with her way of reasoning, didn’t question it.

“So, you think Adam’s behind this?” McGarnagle asked.

“Dunno,” Melva shrugged, “I mean, he arrives here one day, and twelve hours later the White Fang conducts a stealth hit on a dust store. Seems like they’d be connected.”

McGarnagle growled. It was a particular growl, one which Melva had grown used to, and which indicated great discomfort in the man.

“What is it?” Melva asked, still scanning her eyes across the distant borders of the crime scene.

“Adam’s rushing. This wasn’t a carefully planned operation, it was a smash grab for whatever they could get.”

“So?” Melva said. “That just means they make more mistakes.”

“It also means he’s desperate. He’s not acting rationally.”

“Hey, how would you act if your greatest enemy stole your girlfriend?” Melva scoffed.

“This isn’t a joke. Desperate men are dangerous, and I have a feeling he’s not feeling very patient either.”

“You think he might try something soon?”

“I think he’s going to try something very big, very soon.”

“Hm,” Melva was stoic about the matter. “Then we better catch him soon, then. And I think I know where our next lead might be.”

“Where?”

“The dog faunus,” she said, feeling unusually generous with her explanation. “He pressed his rifle into the mud when he fell here, I can read the serial number.”

“What does it say?”

“Well, it’s not all there, It’s only a partial transcription, but I recognize the manufacturer’s code. It’s the small-time armory on thirty-third, next to the mortuary.”

* * *

Mantel, by law, was only allowed to have, at any one time, a certain number of firearms within city limits. Many of these were stored in the armory, where a record of all the guns in the city was kept.

Of course, there were ways to get around this limit. For example, one might set up several puppet corporations, buy a certain amount of guns for export and then… not export them, and instead hide the guns that you’d bought inside city limits. That way, city hall wouldn’t count the “exported” guns, and therefore wouldn’t realize that you were building a massive weapons store inside city limits.

This was, of course, illegal, and therefore against the law.

But, the Atlas Branch of The White Fang didn’t care at all about the law, and Adam cared even less than them, somehow.

This difference, naturally, led to some tension.

Matilda was a hard faunus to crack, as Adam’s intensifying probes against her iron mask discovered.

“We need to strike now!” Adam paced back and forth before the woman's desk, with every round exciting the guards which were posted in the back corner of Matilda’s office. “We need to hit them while they’re vulnerable!”

“So vulnerable that you couldn’t even muster a single strike against the man while you had him cornered in his own office?” Matilda’s calm voice was laced with poison, despite the dispassionate gaze she’d locked onto the now still Adam. “Is Mister Schnee so vulnerable now, that you feel the need to turn tail and lick your wounds in my hideout?” Adam, she could see, was snarling. She didn’t care. “Forget it, Adam, you have no authority over anyone here, least of all me. I’ll overlook your blatant breach of conduct with that amateurish raid you made on that dust facility, and I’ll overlook your recent comments about my leadership, but I’ll not overlook any further disruption to my work! If you want to go on this petty vengeance crusade, do it yourself! Otherwise, I suggest you keep your mouth shut until we can arrange for your departure.” Throughout her speech, all of her was still, except for the slightest shiver of the green, cat-ears adorning her head.

Adam had remained silent throughout the tirade. In fact, the longer it continued, the more quiet he seemed to grow. This silence took considerable effort on his part, if one were to tell by the now frankly insane look which had overtaken his eye. Still, in the presence of a personage of equal rank, on her territory, he was careful to show the proper respect: which was, to say, very little.

“You’ve always been so cautious, Matilda,” Adam hoarsed. “So cautious, that you’ve never done anything. So proud of your meek irrelevance, that you think it an accomplishment that no-one in Atlas is aware of your existence.”

“I’ve kept us alive, and I’ve kept us together, Adam.” Matilda said, a personal rage shining in her eyes for the first time. “And, whatever you may say about my methods, you haven’t faced the challenges I have in Solitas. You’ve only ever had to parade around playing hero and straining my logistics system. And, yes, those were my guns you were using for all those Years, Adam, no matter how little you want to acknowledge it. But I suppose you won’t be needing those anymore, considering the state of the Vale branch these days.”

Adam, looked uncharacteristically calm. And that worried Matilda.

It worried her all the more when he said, putting a delicate hand on his sword handle, “I’ll thank you for the guns, they were useful to me. Perhaps you can be useful to me for a last time, as well.”

“Guards,” she said, standing. “Escort Adam from my office immediately.”

And, without pause or hesitation, the Guards flexed their fingers from their guns, stepped forward from their posts, and grabbed Matilda by either arm, forcing her onto the floor.

“What’s the meaning of this! Guards!” Matilda shouted, looking up at Adam from where she’d been pushed to her knees by the guards.

“Caution doesn’t always lead to safety,” Adam said, having pulled his sword blade and holding it before his face, studying the edge. “You should know that, given your experience.”

Matilda didn’t bother responding, struggling fully now against the tight fisted grip the guards had on her arms.

“Sometimes, caution only leads to frustration -- ” Adam continued, positioning the blade for a down swing “ -- especially amongst the brave faunus who’ve had the displeasure to serve underneath your vision.”

“What is the meaning of this!?” Matilda repeated indignant, now fully shouting to the outside world.

“The meaning is what you make of it,” Adam shrugged. “In any case, you will no longer be heading the Atlas Branch, Matilda.”

Adam brought the sword down.

* * *

Torchwick felt his spirits going up!

Having stepped off the bullhead and into the fresh, arctic, Mantel air, Torchwick could feel himself reconsidering his formerly lowly opinion of Mantel.

“Ya know, Neo! Mantel isn’t so bad!” Torchwick walked along with a springing smile, waving his cane jauntily to every passerby that seemed to catch his eye. “Sure, the weather isn’t as nice as Minstrel, but, hey, It’s got a certain character about it. I like these old towns, they’ve got history.” Without pausing, he stepped easily into the White fang headquarters, walking past the familiar halls and waving knowingly to all the right people.

“And, ya-know what else, Neo?” Torchwick continued. “This place has something that Vale doesn’t: peace. I tell ya, this is the one town I can sleep in without having to line my bedroom door with lime powder. And that’s all because of Matilda. You know her, right? That’s actually her office over there!” He said, pointing to the door they were heading towards. “Bless her heart, she’s such a nice lady. I kind of always feel bad about stealing from this place-”

Torchwick opened the door into the room and felt a cold splash as he stepped onto a shallow pool of something viscous.

With his experience, Torchwick instantly knew that it was either blood, or a really thin milkshake.

Glancing down, Torchwick once again confirmed for himself what Neo knew all along as she looked down at the scene, head shaking sadly: nobody ordered milkshakes in Mantel.

Torchwick’s response, despite his experience, was similarly heartfelt.

“Holy, fucking, cr-!”

* * *

“Crap!” McGarnagle spat, walking away from the Armory and the less than helpful data clerks which staffed it.

“Yeah, that was pointless,” Melva stood next to him, nodding in appreciation of the fact. “Although,” she suddenly turned with a casual shrug, “I’m not really sure what you expected.”

“I expect them to do their jobs!” McGarnagle stepped off the sidewalk to cross the street, spotting an absence in the traffic he could pass through.

Before he took his first steps onto the asphalt, however, McGarnagle was met by an opposing current of people who’d been waiting on the other side, while he himself was carried along by the flood of bodies emerging from his own.

It was a messy and classically Mantel street crossing, one that left everyone involved confused as to how exactly they made it to the other side of the street in one piece. McGarnagle, however, on this occasion, was left unfazed by the trip, occupied as he was with his most recent observation.

“What?” Melva asked, looking up at him and noticing the thoughtful look that had crossed his face.

“That man,” he looked over to indicate a mustachioed figure wearing a shimmering waistcoat over a plain white dress shirt.

Melva observed the man as he traversed the crosswalk and stepped into the mortuary. “What about him?” she asked. “I guess he’s dressed nice for Mantel, but it makes enough sense considering his line of work.”

“He’s been watching us.” McGarnagle took out his notepad, flipping through the pages for the appropriate entry.

“Everyone’s watching you,” Melva said, unimpressed, “you’re a walking shade-ordinance violation.”

“But not everyone went through the crosswalk to avoid us.” McGarnagle said, flipping his notebook closed and slipping it into his coat-pocket. He turned and started walking towards the mortuary.

“What?” Melva leapt after him, catching with far quicker steps. “So what, he used a crosswalk? People do that, you know?”

“Not in Mantel, they don’t,” McGarnagle retorted, crossing back over the street, and setting his sights firmly on the mortuary ahead.

* * *

Torchwick was patently unhappy with the situation.

First of all, the blood of his preferred White Fang commander was now staining his new suede shoes, and they weren’t any old cheap, Vacuo knockoffs, either. And, somehow worse than that, was the fact that Adam had, miraculously, made himself king of this particular hill. Seriously, the guy had no charisma; it was an insoluble mystery to Torchwick how he kept climbing the stupid ladder!

Still, Torchwick was one to respect brute power, especially when the guy wielding it was standing in front of him.

“Adam!” Torchwick greeted with a happy face, “am I glad to see you!” He stopped suddenly\ to look around himself at the warehouse floor; several metal tanks of dust were being carefully filled by the mulling workers. “I love what you’ve done with the place, by the way!” he commented, gesturing at a nearby inspector. “It’s really a lot more active than I’ve seen it before. And, you know, don’t tell anyone this, but I really prefer you to Mati-”

“Get to the point,” Adam scowled.

“Hey, no need to be so impatient, we’re on your side here,” Torchwick said easily. “We’re here to kill the big man, too.”

“Right,” Adam said expressionlessly, “and what do you want?”

“Me?” Torchwick gestured to himself, “oh, nothing. But, my benefactor is rather interested in how you managed to make contact with Raven.”

“I talked to her,” Adam deadpanned.

“And don’t let anyone say you don’t have a way with women, Adam. But, we were hoping for something a bit more substantive regarding the matter. Raven is a notoriously difficult person to reach, after all.”

“Hm, she’s not a very helpful person, either.”

“She helped you.” Torchwick noted.

“If you can call that helping.”

“Whatever you want to call it, we’d still like her information.”

“You can have it,” Adam said. “After you’re done helping me.”

“But…” Torchwick started with tentative confusion, “we will be helping you if we get Raven’s contact. We’re trying to use her to off Mr. Schnee-”

“I don’t care about Schnee, Torchwick,” Adam turned to face away from them, now. “I want Blake.”

“You miss her that much?”

“So that I can kill her myself!” Adam swung his sword, sparking through a metal handrail, and leaving the entire structure ringing in the resonant corous of the warehouse walkways.

“And you’ll have her,” Torchwick promised, “we just need Raven’s information first.”

“You’ll have it after I have Blake,” Adam said, voice hollow with reserved calm. “I know what your promises are worth, Torchwick. And I know you’ll leave here the moment Schnee drops dead, whether I have Blake or not, so I’m going to make this easy for you. Help me, and I’ll give you the information you want. Refuse, and you can leave here empty handed.”

Internally, Torchwick cursed.

Outwardly, he smiled. “Well, how can I refuse such a generous offer! Where do we start?”

* * *

The city of Mantel, not being confined to a floating block of land, was quite spread out over it’s claimed territory. And while, for administrative purposes, it was considered as one entity, it’s inhabitants generally took the trouble to divide it into five sub-cities. Many times, these sub-cities could be separated from one another by quite substantial lengths of undeveloped tundra. But, as a whole, the four central cities generally hugged the coastline just south of Atlas.

The fifth city, in this matter, was the outlier. It inhabited a prime piece of real estate several miles inland, having been located there for the excellent defensive position the local geography afforded. In addition to the advantageous terrain, it was also given several tax breaks and by-laws for developmental purposes.

In the administrative records, the fifth sub-city was not given a name, being considered totally a part of Mantel proper. Colloquially, it was known as The City of The Damned.

This was because of its primary business, the storage of dead bodies. Despite the negative associations left behind by the former empire, it was a generally agreed upon axiom that… if funerals could not be banned, they should, at least, be contained.

Thus, the small frontier town had an economy centered around the City’s only mortuary. For developmental, as well as security purposes, Mantel’s armory was located nearby. Beyond that, there was the bar, the hotel, the chapel, the grimm-defence grid for whenever there was a funeral, and, of course, the secret White Fang base.

So, considering everything, it was perhaps forgivable to think it strange that, of all these things, the mortuary would be the one under police investigation.

“Whaaat!” the mortuary warden said, sweating, and speaking in what, on Earth, would have been considered a comically thick Parisian accent. “I am not, how you say, guilty of anything! What proof do you have that I, the illustrious warden of this estate, have done anything wrong!”

“We’re not accusing you of anything,” Melva stepped forward, “we just want to ask if you’ve seen any suspicious activity in the area.”

“I have seen nothing ‘ere! This is a quiet town, filled with drunks and mourners.” The man complained, gesturing out to beyond the doors they’d just walked through. Through the arc of his movements, could be seen the subtle sheen of his waistcoat.

“And we believe you,” Melva smiled.

“I don’t,” McGarnagle groused. “This man is a criminal.”

If anything, that comment seemed only to upset the warden.

So, naturally, Melva ignored his loud retort. She set her eyes alight and set to looking about the room.

And, exploring through the spectra, it was trivial for her to spot the inconsistencies. All around her stood numerous shelving units, each one six feet deep, several dozen feet high, and running the length of the mortuary. And the lower units, a passing glance revealed, were far sturdier than they had any right to be, considering their expected cargo.

Melva walked unhesitatingly toward a shelf. Gently moving her hand, she pressed the back of it lightly against the wood-face of the slot door that guarded the unit. Slowly, she pressed her hand forward against the oak, increasing the pressure. Pained creaks sounded through the now dead-silence of the room, thick oak bending away under her fist like cheap plywood until, with a thundercrack of failure, the door broke inward, and Melva pushed her hand into the space.

Not wasting a moment, Melva brought her hand back out, a heavy grind accompanying the motion as a large coffin emerged from the dark interior, it’s brass handle firmly in her grip. Stepping back, she pulled the coffin along with her until the head of it slipped past the edge of the containment unit, falling to the ground with a deafening crash. A heavy crack accompanied the landing, the coffin jumping in place as it’s bottom broke.

This action, if anything, seemed only to upset the warden further.

“What is the meaning of this! You-you inestimable morons!” The warden shouted, his accent creeping up to new heights. “Have you no capacity for shame!? Coming here to disturb my bodies, when there are perfectly eligible corpses you could dig up outside!”

Melva was unfazed. “Tell me,” she said, kicking the coffin and eliciting a metallic jingle from it, “do you get many bodies weighing five thousand pounds?”

At that, the warden made a turn to surprised. “What? This, must be a mistake!”

McGarnagle knelt down and threw the coffin cover out to the side.

Underneath, glimmering in the limelight, was a veritable ocean of bullets.

Calmly, they both looked to the Warden for explanation.

The warden, himself now glimmering with sweat, shrugged at the request. “These…uh, are not live rounds!.”

* * *

“Adam, stop it, ya mad man! At least wait for the rest of them to arrive!” Torchwick shouted down at the scene from the parapets, watching the miniature civil war play out on the warehouse floor below.

Well, Torchwick vacillated, perhaps Civil War was too grandiose a term, considering the scale of it. Well, that and how terribly Matilda’s loyalists seemed to be doing.

Torchwick sighed as Adam decapitated yet another kneeling figure. And, he found that he couldn’t really spare too much pity for the loyalists. Really, they’d broken all the rules, as far as Torchwick saw them. First of all, they sent logistics planners and lawyers to fight against Adam. Secondly, they didn’t win. And, thirdly, they actually tried to fight for a leader who was already dead! Torchwick never really saw the point of martyrdom. And, wincing as he observed yet another execution, he was having trouble finding any appeal in it now, too.

“Adam, come on, we need that guy! He has all the pass- Oh, and he’s dead!” Torchwick rubbed his temple as he leaned forward on the handrail. Next to him, Neo was having trouble connecting to the local wifi, having just missed her chance to ask the only guy who knew.

“Ya know, neo,” Torchwick said without looking in her direction. “Do you think the Schnee’s have as much trouble coordinating as we seem to. I mean, I can respect their business, but they’ve also got a nice little enterprise with the government going there. That takes coordination, you know... sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to go straight like that.” He watched dispassionately as yet another body was cut short. “Probably less murder,” he noted.

Neo continued to frustratedly tap away at her scroll.

“Yeah, what am I saying,” Torchwick corrected, “ who cares what they think. They’re all just a bunch of racists anyway.”

* * *

“Look, she’s not racist, ok?” Weiss said with a puff of exasperation, “I’ve known Winter all my life. She’s... not like that.”

“Then why can’t we introduce your girlfriend to her?” Yang, walking along directly behind Weiss, asked with a growing smirk.

“Because she’s busy!” Weiss flared, turning back suddenly to face Yang, who was all but laughing now as Blake glared at her for her antics.

Past the laughter, however, Weiss thought she heard something that she hadn’t heard for a long time.

“Uh… you guys go ahead without me,” she said, turning to look down the side passage, “I’ll catch up in a minute.”

“But Schwarz said we had to stick-”

“I said I’ll catch up in a minute!” Weiss said, “Just, I have to do something!”

Although concerned, the team was quick to move on, though not without several, very loud, pronouncements of their well wishes for her. It seemed they’d taken Schwarz’s new security measures a mite too seriously.

Weiss, to console them, quickly waved back with promises to be, “just right back,” and watched as they disappeared behind the far corner.

In the following loneliness, Weiss was now certain that she’d heard what she’d thought she’d heard. There, coming from that private hallway they’d used to hide in when they were children, was the sound of sobbing. Tentatively, Weiss stepped through, keeping her steps silent as she peeked around the entrance way, watching as Whitley, with his back to her, and leaning with his hand against the far wall, tried to stifle the sound of his crying. Weiss thought she heard him muttering something under his breath, but couldn’t make it out.

Weiss stood there for the longest moment, deciding, after a long moment of indecision, that she ought to leave. Really, there was nothing she could do for him anyway. So, it came as a great surprise to her when she felt her body moving forward in the absence of direction from her mind; and moving less stealthily than she had previously, it seemed.

“What is it?” Whitley asked with a wavering voice, not turning back to look at her. “Come to laugh at me?” he asked, not even bothering to add a hint of admonishment to his words. It was almost as if he didn’t expect anything different, Weiss noted.

“No,” Weiss said with a quiet demeanor.

“Well, why not!?” Whitley whipped around to face her. “I wouldn’t have done any more for you! So, why not laugh at me! Why not laugh at the idiot!”

“Huh,” Weiss breathed out with a short sigh. “You’re not an idiot,” she said. “And I keep telling you that you shouldn’t take father’s words so seriously. Maybe now’s a good time to start.”

“Oh, of course you would say that!” Whitley sneered, raising his voice. “You were always his favorite!”

“What!?” Weiss scowled, “what makes you think~!”

“Because he always talked about you!” Whitley turned on her. “Even after he disowned you, you were all he would complain about!” Here Whitley paused, gathering himself befre continuing: “I’m the good child!” he said, desperately, “I’ve always done the right thing and followed his orders! But you-” he pointed at Weiss, moving in her direction, “you’ve always just done whatever you wanted! You get to run away from home and insult anyone you want and you still get all his attention! You still get his respect! And, why shouldn’t you! It’s not like you’re in danger of being forgotten!”

“I don’t have his respect.” Weiss denied.

“Oh, is that why, despite everything, you still get the courtesy of being disinherited in private? I speak out once, and he dresses me down in front of everyone!

“I mean, How can I be the only eligible child left, yet still not be granted the rank of heir! It's not fair!”

Whitley’s voice was wavering like a badly tuned instrument, and tears seemed to stain the back of his words as he turned away from Weiss, wiping his eyes with his forearm. In the midst of this motion, he mumbled something which was muffled by the cloth that rubbed over his nose.

“What was that?” Weiss asked.

“I said I’m sorry!” Whitley said. “About what I said earlier. I was just trying to impress dad. Apparently, I shouldn’t have bothered with you in the room.”

Weiss pinched her brow and breathed out a long sigh through her nostrils. “Look, I’ll accept that apology because I’m your sister, and because I can see you’re distressed. But, If you can’t muster a better one to Blake by tomorrow, I’m going to throw you out a window.”

“Whatever,” Whitley said, in that tone of voice Weiss had always known to mean, “ok.” And he sat down on the floor next to her, leaning back against a nearby wall.

And, Weiss, careful to fix her skirt, sat on the ground next to him, basking in their communal silence. The hum of the palace airconditioning was distant and nostalgic against the background.

And, they were content to sit quietly, for the present moment.

After a while, an idea sparked in her mnd. “Do you remember,” Weiss said, “when we were children, we always used to hide here from Winter?”

“Kind of,” Whitley said, furrowing his brows, “honestly, I thought that was a dream.”

“Yeah, you were probably too young to remember,” Weiss said. “But, I used to hide here all the time. Winter would never find me.”

“She probably wasn’t looking,” Whitley said with a snort.

Weiss rolled her eyes.

“Besides, what was I doing here if I was so young?” Whitley asked.

“Well,” Weiss said, voice growing sheepish, “I may have been hiding here sometimes for less innocent reasons. Like that time I accidentally broke mom’s vase and needed a place to stay.”

“And, what does that have to do with me?”

“Well, I thought, maybe if mom found me, she wouldn’t hit me if I was holding you.’

“Haha, I knew that wasn’t a dream! You’re terrible!” Whitley said fully laughing now, hunched over. “Besides, since when did mom care so much about anything?”

And, for several reasons, Weiss felt a profound sadness.

“You know, Whitley, things were different back then. Father, was different back then?”

“What, are these the mystical happy times?” He said, a defensive irony wrapping his words.

“No… they weren’t happy. It was just… we felt like a family, I guess?”

“Was it like when he came home on my sixth’s birthday?”

“No,” Weiss said, remembering and scrunching her brows. “I know what you’re talking about,” Weiss preempted Whitley protests, “and I remember he became... less horrible after that, but he was really different before you turned three.”

“So, what? He used to be nice, turned evil, but then got better but not really? And I grew up just in time to miss out on his kinder days?”

“No… I mean, yes. He did use to be better before you were three. Then, he told mom he didn’t care, then when you turned six he… just turned off I guess. I suppose that’s the nicest you remember him being. You really kind of missed out in your formative years.”

“Don’t forget to rub it in.” Whitley stoked.

Weiss was silent for a moment, but then braved the silence.

“Have… you noticed that father’s been acting strange?” Weiss asked, turning to Whitley.

Whitley breathed a sigh of relief. “I thought that was just me!” he said.

“Huh,” Weiss said.

“What?”

“You know, I think... there’s a reason for his change in behavior, and I think it has to do with whatever was going on during your third and sixth birthdays.”

“Ok?”

“And I want you to help me find out,” Weiss said, putting a hand on the shoulder of Whitley.

“What!” Whitley was incensed, “I’m not a detective! And neither are you!”

“We don’t have to be, Whitley!” Weiss was adamant. “We have complete access to the Schnee family files, and we know our father better than anyone in the world. If he has a secret, there’s no one better than us to investigate!”

“Secret? What makes you think there’s a secret?”

“Everyone has secrets, Whitley!” Weiss admonished as if she were stating the obvious. “And I know there’s nothing that could change his behavior so drastically without us knowing what it was, unless he was hiding it from us.”

“Well, even so, I’m not sure father would appreciate us snooping through his business.”

“Would you stop for one second!” Weiss stood up, exasperatedly looking down at the still sitting Whitley. “I mean, you’ve done everything he’s ever wanted for all your life, and what has that gotten you?”

Whitley, still looked hesitant.

“Huh, look. Can you just promise you won’t tell father what’s going on?” She reached out a hand.

“I promise,” Whitley looked seriously into her eyes and took it.

* * *

“They’re investigating us, Adam! Do you hear me! They’re investigating us!”

Torchwick was yelling with earnest frustration, waving his scroll around with every gesture as he paced just behind Adam’s back, desperately trying to capture the man’s interest.

Adam, though he heard the man, was more captivated by the string of targets that had been laid out in front of him. A meditative calm seemed, at all times, to be present in his body. As he swung out another flash of energy, a silent hollowness rang through him. When the shot connected with the target, body burning, an adopted calm. And, even when he pressed his sword against the running angle grinder, sparks flying and arm rattling, a charge bursting through him, he wasn’t at all disturbed. The cacophony of screeching metal seemed a world away, unimportant, as he focused on channeling the energy into himself.

Torchwick, lifting his cane hand to press closed his right ear, was far less impressed with the spectacle.

“Are you even listening to me!?” He shouted, barely hearing himself over the crackling metal and facing himself to look away from the searing, red glow which had taken Adam’s blade.

Suddenly, Adam flashed his arm to the side, sheathing his sword in a ready stance as the glow hid itself and the noise depressed to a more manageable level.

“I’m listening,” Adam said, sounding as if he’d trained his focus elsewhere.

“They’re investigating the morgue!” Torchwick yelled. “Do you know how many years it took us to set that store up!? Not to mention, it’s literally right around the corner!” Torchwick gestured in the direction of the mortuary, on the other side of town.

Adam slashed out another shot, and returned his sword to the grinder. Torchwick stood impatiently, leaning on his cane and resting a hand on his hip until, once again, Adam returned to the ready stance.

“Well, gathered your thoughts?” Torchwick said with a strained smile. “Any idea what we’re supposed to do with this?”

“We finish our plan before they finish investigating,” Adam answered, just in time to take another shot. And returning his sword to the grinder just in time to drown out Torchwick’s ensuing rant.

“Are you crazy!” Torchwick raised both hands into the air with a hopeless gesture. “That’s not a plan! That’s barely a suicide pact! Do you have any idea what’s at stake here, Adam!? If they find the Atlas Branch, then we’re fucked! Do you head me? Fucked! After this is over, you can forget about guns, you’ll have enough trouble supplying your troops with toilet paper! Ships are going to get confiscated over this, Adam! Do you have any idea how hard it's going to be to get more smugglers on our side when Atlas uses this info to blow up the Broduers?”

A certain calm suddenly found Torchwick when Adam, once again, assumed silence.

“Oh,” Torchwick said, epiphytic. “You know all of this, don’t you? You just don’t care.”

Adam was silent, focusing on his last target. Soon, he straightened, arm swinging naturally out, and toppled the last stake -- as well as the faunus tied to it.

Torchwick, having finally taken his eyes of the man, found himself in a better position to notice the bloodstained hillsides which Adam had just finished excavating. Broken stakes and broken bodies littered it’s damaged surface.

“Agh!” Torchwick spat in frustration, “could you stop killing people? White Fang morale isn’t exactly soaring through the roof even without you playing executioner! Besides, I’m pretty sure these lot weren’t even loyalists.”

“There are loyalists among them. We just need to keep the revolts down until tomorrow. After that…” Adam shrugged, sheathed his sword, and turned away from the sight.

“Yeah, yeah, let me just get one of my contacts to clean this up, not that we can use the mortuary anymore, mind,” Torchwick griped, pulling out his scroll.

“No,” Adam held out a hand. “Let the men bury the bodies in the tundra. They need to see, first hand, the consequences.”

“The consequences of what!? These guys didn’t even do anything!” Torchwick gesticulated madly in the direction of the bodies.

“The consequences of displeasing me.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, I’ll let them know,” Torchwck didn’t bother hiding his eyerolls. “Oh, and by the way, you’ve been here for a couple of days, right?”

“Yes, what of it?” Adam took an annoyed tone.

“Do you know where I can get some lime?”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.

**Chapter 27: Investigation**

* * *

Clang!

The heavy metal door shut ominously in place, and the warden -- still rearing in his chair from the energy with which he’d been thrown into it -- was left to stew in the deafening echo of the sound as it rattled off the surrounding darkness.

The noise did little to distract the warden from his woes, however. He was still under investigation. The concrete and metal room, designed as if to sap heat from it’s subjects, was already bringing him to shivers. The annoyingly bright heatlamp directed into his face was a bother. And, oh yes, the years of jail time awaiting him certainly soured the mood.

Still, at the moment, all of that mattered very little. After all, how could it, when he was in the presence of such a preeminent friend?

“Oh, how I’m so very glad to see you here, monsieur.” The warden leant forward approvingly, as if to move closer to the figure sitting on the other side of the table. “I can not tell you how much your presence here has settled my heart.” The warden whispered with a confidential expression. “Know that, of everyone, I have always considered you the greatest of friends. I have always trusted you without reservation. And, although you have already done more than I can repay; I can do nothing now, except continue to rely on that trust to see me through this.”

“What’s wrong?” The figure asked with a disinterested tone and a voice like gravel.

“Oh, how I wish I could spill my heart to you at this very moment! All of this secrecy has always eaten me up; you know that! But, I can’t.” The warden slipped from his conspiratorial whisper to look over at the wall length mirror. “These… dogs are watching us. They will use every letter I speak to draft my sentence.”

“Don’t worry about the police. They’re not watching us,’ the figure reassured.

This warden was taken by great surprise at this.

“You’re sure?” he leant forward earnestly, supporting his weight on his cuffed hands under him until he was nearly parallel with the table. “You are not joking, monsieur?”

“Just tell me about the situation,” the figure said.

“Oh, of course,” the warden sat up, abashed. “Forgive my hesitancy. I’m rather shaken by this whole-”

“The information,” the figure demanded, leaning back impatiently.

“Oh, yes.” The warden shook his head, as if in great confusion. “It’s this whole White Fang situation. You know I was adamant we not involve ourselves! But, I’m also not the one incharge of decisions, so I was sent here to oversee the weapons store-”

“You run a weapons store for the White Fang?” the figure interrupted, looking down to draft a witness statement.

“Who else, monami?”

“I thought the White Fang didn’t have a presence in Atlas.”

“Oh, not an active branch, to be sure. But, to say they don’t have a presence would be missing the forest for the trees. They run the majority of their logistical network through here! Food, dust, uniforms, information, weaponry; --” here he gestured to himself with a smile, “-- everything they use touches Mantle in one way or another.”

“Hm.” the figure nodded. “And what of the recent raid? Pretty active for a departmental branch.”

“Oh,” the warden seethed, “that… was Adam’s doing. And I’d bet my life that raid is the reason I’m in here.” He jangled his cuffs for emphasis.

“Why would Adam do that?”

“How should I know!?” the warden spat, “and why should I care? I have no interest in understanding the insane. All I know is that he wants that girly of his, and damn anyone who finds themselves in his way!” The warden turned his head aside with disdain, leaning back in his chair and allowing the sodium-vapor lamp-light to glimmer brilliantly off his vermilion coat.

“Do you know anything about his plans?” For the first time, the figure leaned forward enough that the light could catch him, revealing to the warden...

“Oh, if you can call them plans.”

“Call them whatever you want, just tell me.”

“Oh, well, I’m not fully certain, to be honest. But… uh, do you know that warehouse on thirty fifth street?”

“Yes.”

“He’s been asking for major transfers of dust to the location, and weapons, and ammo. It’s quite an exposing activity, moving that much material, but I suppose that doesn’t matter considering its purpose.”

“I don’t understand,” the figure replied after a moment. “What would be the purpose of moving everything to the warehouse on thirty-fifth?”

“Oh, yes, you wouldn’t know, would you?” The warden tapped his chin. “Well, you remember the old tether point they used to run between here and Atlas?”

“That went defunct in ‘48.”

“Oh, the trolley stopped running, but the line still exists. And, because it went defunct, they didn’t bother to replace it when they upgraded the whole system in 1455! So, of all the tether lines between Atlas and the ground, that one is still operable under local power!”

The warden smiled with pride at the wide eyed reaction he’d garnered from his friend.

“Oh, it’s a wonder to observe a stoic’s machinations!” The warden chuckled. “I can see you thinking now: ‘if they manage to revive that line…’ hahaha!”

“Can they revive that line!” the figure roared, sending his chair leaping across the concrete floor as he stood over the warden.

“Why, of course they can! They’ve been able to for years, now! They’ve even managed to access the underground lines in Atlas. If Adam gets his way… well, you know the SDC's secondary palace? The one they use to store all that dust?... ‘Boom’” the warden mimed, spreading his hands apart at the wrist to demonstrate the action.

And, considering the look in his friends eye at the statement, the warden couldn’t help but appreciate the understatement of it all. The warden clapped his bound hands as well as he was able, finding himself caught up in the excitement. “You know, I hate to give Adam any credit, but I have to say: he’s certainly made things interesting.”

The figure was already walking hurriedly out of the door, kicking it closed behind him and allowing the shadows to recede as McGarnagle took precedence in the darkness.

“So, another case closed?” Melva asked, focusing down on the lollipop stick she was messily unwrapping.

“Adam’s about to blow up the dust repository!” McGarnagle growled, walking past her.

“Yeah, I heard that.” Melva, at last, succeeded in unwrapping the confection, tossing the plastic into the garbage bin behind her as they exited out into the Mantel winter. “Still, considering everything he told us, it shouldn’t be too hard to track these guys down.”

Melva unrolled a fact sheet with all the witness testimony they’d managed to collect from the warden. On it was a detailed map of Mantle, marked with the name and location of every White Fang Hideout, White Fang sympathiser, White Fang dust store, White Fang Leader, and White Fang bowling club the suspect was aware of.

“And all of this in one hour,” Melva smiled with appreciation, looking down at the multi-colored map and tracing over the hand-written notes that filled the white border.

“It shouldn’t have taken us one hour,” McGarnagle let out a hard shift of air through his nostrils, and turned a scowl onto the undersized local police station they’d been forced to rely on.

Melva rolled the map back into a compact cylinder and stuffed it into the evidence bag. “Hey, I told the courts it was urgent,” she said with a defensive tone. “It's not like they can sign warrants much faster than they did, anyhow."

“I shouldn’t need a warrant to interrogate scum like him!” McGarnagle threw an arm out to point back at the police station, his voice cutting through the crisp, Mantle air like a duty suspension through an officer’s disciplinary record.

Melva reflexively ducked under the statement, slowly rising when she remembered they weren’t in the main city. “Yeah, yeah, easy there, judge,” she called with placating gestures. “Remember what happened last time chief caught you saying that?”

“Will he remember if we’re an hour too late to stop Adam?”

“He’ll certainly be worrying until we do,” Melva looked down at the scroll, as well as the numerous messages from headquarters that filled it. Another message pinged onto the screen, and Melva paused to read it. “He says reinforcements are being delayed by a snow storm, but that they’ve got the Atlas side of the tube under lock down.”

McGarnagle was silent.

“You don’t sound too happy to hear that,” Melva noticed.

“How long will reinforcements be delayed?” McGarnagle asked.

“It’s Atlas weather,” Melva shrugged, “one hour, two weeks, same difference.”

“Hm.”

“Seriously, what’s got you so down?”

“Adam…” McGarnagle said. “He’d know that, if we caught the warden, we’d find all of this out.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, we still don’t know his plan B.”

“Plan B?” Melva chuckled. “No offense, McGarnagle, but I think you’re dreaming up a more interesting case for yourself. This Adam character doesn’t seem like the type who’d have a plan B, or a plan in general, for that matter.”

“This Adam character” -- McGarnagle stuffed his hands huffily into his over sized coat-pockets -- “has been the commander of the southern White Fang for half a decade. You’d do well not to underestimate him.”

“We’ll see, soon enough,” Melva slipped her scroll back into her pocket. “Anyway,” she continued, “what’s next?”

“We gol to the White Fang Headquarters,” McGarnagle answered. “If Adam’s there, we arrest him. If he’s not there, we find out where he is.”

“You know," Melva said. -- talking eloquently around the lollipop stick bobbing out of her mouth -- "with the recent changes in management, it’s probably going to be heavily guarded.”

“Probably,” McGarnagle responded, unfazed.

“You might actually have to get off your ass and try for once.”

“I doubt it.”

* * *

“Rough day?” The guard joked and waved them in.

They stepped into the gated premises of the White Fang hideout.

Melva held an annoyed look, certain she could detect a smug aura coming from the mass of shadows to her left.

“How’s it going!?” Another one of the friendlier faunus waved from across the snow covered courtyard, his white uniform stark against the corrugated steel of the boundary wall.

Melva felt her focus sharpen further at the provocation. Here was a chance to get the information they were looking for; but how to best exploit it?

“Hey,” McGarnagle responded boredly, “where’s Adam?”

“Oh, he’s in the meeting room!” The faunus responded immediately. “You know, the one at the end of the main hall! I can take you there if you-!”

“It’s fine,” McGarnagle interrupted, ignoring the man and heading off for the main building.

Melva, despite this being the fiftieth time seeing the effect, still couldn’t help the feeling of amazement that came with the sight. “Impressive,” she commended. “I didn’t know it could make people see you as a faunus.”

“It can make them see me as whatever I need them to,” McGarnagle responded slowly, his words keeping pace with his unhurried stride.

“Wow, that is broken.” Melva looked turned to observe the sun glare off the snow. “How come you didn’t show off that trick when you were applying? I’m sure you could’ve wowed them if you made them think you were a faunus.”

“They don’t allow faunus into the police force,” McGarnagle spoke dryly.

“Now that’s not true,” Melva denied. “What about that new girl? ...uh, the Rabbit faunus,” she snapped her fingers in consternation: “Judy! That was her name.”

“She’s not an officer, she’s a meter maid,” McGarnagle retorted

“Still…” Melva replied, letting her voice die as they approached the building.

Melva crouched low, letting McGarnagle's watery shadow fall over her as they entered the building.

Inside, it was empty, and quiet, and the far door at the end of the hallway was closed.

Cautiously, they slid themselves over to hug one of the side walls.

Here they slowed to a crawl, walking in trained lockstep as they stalked carefully and gingerly across the long hallway. Ages passed in their quiet solitude, and time slowed as they vigil over the passing doorways to either side.

Before they’d reached the first door, however, McGarnagle dropped his shadow and Melva, though she expected the move, couldn’t help but display her annoyance.

“What’s wrong?” Melva, not looking away from her observation, raised her gun higher. She could feel that she was gripping it tighter now.

McGarnagle, in a change of pace, was silent,

“Why did you drop your semblance?” Melva was speaking with a professional whisper, though that didn’t conceal any of the immediacy that harried the question.

Another moment passed in silence.

“I’ve seen you hold it up for hours, McGarnagle. Days. And I can see your aura isn’t low,” she spared a glance at him now, eyes glowing meaningfully as they looked up into his. “Why did you lower it now?”

McGarnagle kept his eyes focused ahead of them, his lips grimaced with unsaid words.

Melva sighed with unsaid fury. “Come on, McGarnagle. We’ve been working together for… how long now?” She quieted as they passed by a set of doors, starting back up as they probed deeper into the hallway. “I’m not asking you to trust me with everything, but I thought you considered us partners at this point.”

“We are partners,” McGarnagle said at last, an unwavering confidence bolstering his words.

“Yet you still won’t tell me why you keep dropping your semblance whenever we enter enemy territory.” Melva sniped, a creeping annoyance rising in her voice. “What’s the matter? Is it a defect in the semblance, or is it something with your head?”

McGarnagle was, again, silent, but reclaimed his voice just before Melva could continue hers. “My semblance is perfect,” he said, head sagging. “It works completely and I don’t use any stamina to maintain it.”

“I noticed,” Melva scowled down the barrel of her gun, “you always have it up to some extent. So, what’s the problem with amping it up now? Afraid they’d recognize you?”

“They wouldn’t recognize me.” McGarnagle spoiled. “Like I said, my semblance is perfect. It doesn’t work on the eyes, it works on the soul. It works on everyone.”

“Ok? So what’s the problem?” Melva asked.

“I can’t recognize myself.”

Melva felt her eyes widen. “You always seemed so composed,” she said, sounding sympathetic.

“I can remember my goals and intent, but I never know if they’re even worth pursuing. I’m not even sure I’m the good guy, half the time. I can do it for questioning, but that’s not a state I can muster myself to kill someone in.”

Melva was quiet, taking in the information.

“Thank you,” Melva nodded at last, flexing her fingers along the handle of her pistol.

Again, a doorway came up and they were silent.

Melva was thankful for the obstruction. It gave her time to think.

“You know,” Melva said at last, seeing the final door approaching, and deciding there wouldn’t be a better time to say so, “I used to be legally blind before I awakened mine.”

“You…” McGarnagle said with disbelief, “... legally blind?”

“Haha, unbelievable isn’t it,” Melva said with nostalgic serenity. “I used to wear glasses, you know? Large, square rimmed things. I could hardly see without them. I was told I wouldn’t get to join the force even with an aura… Show’s what they know.” Melva laughed, a heartfelt tone sneaking into her voice as they approached the final door. Her fingers flexed themselves on her gun, adjusting and readjusting her grip. In her chest, her heart beat like a sprinting drum. “Still, at times like this, I always wonder how my life would’ve turned out if I hadn’t made it.”

“What? You don’t like storming into a room full of armed White Fang?” McGarnagle said, a hint of humor in his voice.

Melva let out a humorless chuckle. “Let’s just say It’s never been my favorite part of the job.”

“How many are in there?” McGarnagle asked.

Melva cast her eyes onto the borders of the closed door, taking in the subtle reflections and shadows. “Five figures, at least some of them are armed.”

They grew stoic as they approached the door.

Still, aware that it may be their last, they figured they had time for one final exchange.

“You know, sometimes... I think we were meant to be.” Melva said. "I can really see us solving crimes for a long time after this."

“You’re certainly the best pair of eyes on the force.”

“Yeah, and to think I used to be legally blind. Ironic, isn’t it?” Melva let out a short, nervous chuckle.

“I’m not sure that’s technically ironic,” McGarnagle responded.

“...Fuck you!” Melva scowled and stepped aside.

Passing by her, McGarnagle rushed the door, gun at the ready.

* * *

The early morning sun was sluggish over the northern latitudes, and Mantle was bathed in the ethereal twilight of the northern morning.

Adam stood at the head of the table, starlight illuminating his features as his five commanders looked upon him.

“McGarnagle is not a force to be so trifled with,” the elder faunus spoke. “I know of your exploits, young Adam, and I respect your strength. But, it is in the service of preserving that strength for the White Fang that I advise against this rash course you’ve set upon.”

“I did not ask for your advice.” Adam’s words cut through the early morning air. “I asked, simply, for information about how to kill McGarnagle. Will no one tell me?”

“How can we tell you?” the lieutenant spoke brashly from the opposite side. “We have not managed to kill McGarnagle, so how would we know what makes him die?”

“Deductive reasoning,” Adam harshed simply.

“Deductive reasoning is fundamentally based on inductive reasoning, and thus invalid,” the lieutenant pushed back, looking Adam directly in his mask. “Besides, I’m not sure why you’ve asked us about killing in the first place. You seem to be the expert on the subject.” The lieutenant leant back into his chair and crossed his arms.

“How much does he know about us?” Adam asked.

It was the lieutenant that answered. “Since they captured the warden? Everything,” he said with finality.

“That seems a bold claim,” Adam ground through his teeth.

“There’s a reason we’ve been lying low, Adam," the Lieutenant snarled, "McGarnagle’s semblance will turn anyone into an open book. As far we’re concerned, we can assume he knows everything, from our names, to the location of this hideout, to our fucking career aspirations, which, as far as I can tell, are now all prison related.”

“Then we continue with the plan,” Adam said. “Have everyone working double time. I want the main setup completed by tonight.”

“Didn’t you hear me!” the lieutenant stood, revealing the rifle that hung precariously on his belt, “the police are going to be knocking down that gate before the morning’s over!” He pointed out of the open door into the courtyard beyond.

“We’ll abandon this place,” Adam answered.

“We’ll have to abandon every place!” The lieutenant was getting heated. “We should’ve been pulling out yesterday, if you hadn’t commandeered all our men to play pack mule for your dust transfers! You-!”

“I’ll stop you right there!” Every head turned to the intruding voice. It was the old faunus, who sat regally back, stroking his white beard. “We have problems, there’s no need to add to them with needless bloodshed!” Here he turned his eyes pointedly on the lieutenant.

The lieutenant, unabashedly brandishing his rifle, only sat up straighter.

Breathing a relenting sigh, the old faunus returned his attention to Adam.

“And, loathe as I am to be in the position of agreeing with the young lieutenant, I must advise that retreating may be our only viable move. We need all the manpower we can spare to remove our presence in haste. Every second counts now, and every captured member is a remarkable liability. Even a single faunus captured alive could be a fatal blow to us considering our current state! We must remove our men, Adam. We must remove everything!”

Adam showed little care for the lieutenant and his rifle, and he showed even less care for the old general’s words.

Still, the faunus’s words did inspire some thought in him.

Adam made a small movement, and rested his hand on his sword handle.

Cchck!

The lieutenant leveled his rifle at Adam, gripping onto the weapon with both hands.

“Lieutenant, put that weapon down!” The general yelled before turning to Adam. “And, young Adam, you must listen to me. You can not fathom the danger McGarnagle represents to us.”

“You don’t need to worry about McGarnagle, general.” Adam spoke with perfect repose, still resting his hand on the handle, and not turning to acknowledge the weapon wielding man next to him. “I’ll deal with him.”

“And, what of the common men?” The general argued. “They know enough to tear down the foundations of our existence. What of us?” The general asked, gesturing to himself and his compatriots.

“The men have nothing important to say,” Adam replied. “And you won’t be giving McGarnagle any information.”

“That is not a choice we can make,” the general responded sternly.

“I know,” Adam said, suddenly turning his hand to grip the blade.

The lieutenant, eyes wide in fear, moved to press the trigger.

Too late, however, for Adam had completed his swing, and painted the walls with a colorful arc of red.

* * *

Soon, the darkness fell, and the sun rose to it’s noon-time peak, and then withered again, as a dense fog of storm clouds formed to obscure it.

A crack of lightning ran through the increasingly heavy snowfall, harshly illuminating the grotesque scene for the police officers.

“Seems like he took it in one swing,” Melva noted, studying the blood splatters on a distant wall.

McGarnagle stepped over the body of the fallen lieutenant, casting his eyes on the other dead figures as they sat stiffly, with heads lolled at odd angles, around the table. He leant coolly over an old faunus, reading the doodle’s he’d been drawing in his notebook. Must’ve been a boring meeting, until it wasn’t.

“Why would he kill them?” McGarnagle said with a wondering tone.

“Maybe he didn’t want any more information leaking out? Not even you can make the dead talk, after all.”

“Why not hide them away, in that case?”

“Conflict in the leadership?” Melva ran a finger across a nearby chalkboard. “It’s not uncommon in criminal enterprises.”

“He knows we’re after him,” McGarnalge walked to look out the window, casting shadow across all of the room as he did so.

“Still think he’s got a plan B?”

“I think he’s not one to go down quietly.”

“We’ll find him soon enough,” Melva assured.

“What makes you say that?

“Because I think I just might know what his plan B is, after all,” Melva said, confident pride oozing from her voice.

This, McGarnagle had to see.

“How can you know that?” McGarnagle turned around, watching her as she ran the fine chalk-dust between her fingers.

“You know that dust mining colony north of here?”

“Yes,” McGarnagle raised an eyebrow.

“Well, it's a bit further north than most people imagine. It’s way, way, way up there. Beyond the rail lines. And the storms there make Mantle look like a beach resort.”

“Why are you telling me things I already know?”

“Because,” Melva perked, “here’s something you just might not know. Regular chalk doesn’t work well in those temperatures, so they make their own.”

“How do they manage that?”

“Hm,” Melva shrugged, “they grind up regular chalk and mix in some ice dust. Not like they can’t afford it, they’re drowning in the stuff up there, after all.”

“So, why would Adam be going there?”

“Well, thinking of the chalk, I was just remembering my time in Atlas air traffic.”

“You used to work in Atlas air traffic?”

“Yes, and I just remembered that we always used to hate airships coming from the mining colony.”

“Why?”

“Because they never had up to date RFIA tags. They were too far away and no-one bothered to enforce things too strictly with them. As far as we were concerned, we had no idea whether a ship coming from there was even legally chartered, much less whether it was supposed to be arriving at that time.”

“You think Adam knows about this?”

“I think the White Fang’s known about this for a long time. They’ve made a business of shipping things illegally, after all.”

“And you think he’s going there to get one of those ships?”

“I think he’s going to be flying several of those ships into Atlas dust repositories soon.”

“And, considering our luck, I take it that communications with Atlas have been blocked by the storm?”

Melva looked down at her scroll, and gave a heavy nod of confirmation.

McGarnagle let out a weary sigh. “It’s a hundred and twenty miles to the mining colony. We won’t make it in time if we try to go back to Mantle first.”

“Then we go directly to the colony,” Melva said, unworried. “Maybe the storm will clear up on the way, and we can warn them then.”

“No,” McGarnagle said. “I’ll go to the colony and try to stop Adam. You go back and warn-”

“No.” Melva denied the proposition with a simplicity that cut. “We’ll both be going to the colony; and we won’t be ‘trying’ anything. We’ll be stopping Adam.”

“Atlas needs to know-”

“Atlas won’t be doing anything in this weather. Those colony planes are underpowered, but they’re built to fly through storms like this. They’ll slip through the sensors even if every unit is scanning for them. Our only option is to stop him, McGarnagle. And, frankly, I don’t want to have to remind you how many times my eyes have kept you from catching a bullet.”

McGarnagle thought over her words for a moment, and, seeing the truth in them, finally spoke.

“Let’s do this.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

* * *

Mr. S was an educated man.

Straight A student, MIT grad, two masters from Cal-Tech, fifteen years work experience, team player. Heck, he’d even done a semester in MIPT in the Soviet Union.

He had it all.

Except… all of that was nothing before the question facing him today. The night had passed swiftly, as he stayed up wrestling with it to little effect; and his failures were stark, because the caliber of issue he was facing was not one that could be simply solved with college education.

No, the caliber of the issue, was legendary. Because, this was no ordinary, everyday, question.

It was one of The Questions.

When Mr. S had been a younger man, attending as an exchange student in MIPT, he’d -- resolving to pick up a bit of the local culture -- joined a Moscow, Russian Lit club.

And, he wasn’t sure why it only occurred to him now, but he remembered Dostoyevsky had listed -- among the highlights of his works -- what he’d called The Eternal Questions: those questions which had haunted and excited Man ever since his inception, and which, with every new generation, faced fervent and unsuccessful attempts to answer them. The impossibility of the questions was not a hindrance in this regard; because, when one needed an answer, the difficulty of the question wasn’t something that dettered a man; it, infact, perhaps only drove him on all the more.

And among these Questions were such delights as: What is the meaning of life? What is morality? What are this week’s lottery numbers?

Mr. S, though, was perhaps facing the oldest of those questions. The one which, in it’s painful simplicity, affected every person: from the humblest monk to the most ostentatious emperor:

The question, put into simple language, was this:

“What. in god’s name, is there to eat?”

For Mr. S, that list had grown dangerously short.

And that list, to his chagrin, had not grown any longer by the morning, when Mr. S, in between appointments, stumbled past a glass door and caught a glimpse of his reflection, discovering his new look: malnourished vampire. Low blood sugar would do that, he imagined, and experienced.

Mr. S didn’t have many solutions to speak of. Every one he came up with seemed inadequate in the face of his problem.

Telling the staff about the poisoner directly was a no go. Because doing so would, naturally, bait the question: “What makes you think there’s a traitor?” A question Mr. S could only truthfully answer by saying: “A ghost told me.” Changing the kitchen procedures on a whim would just make the traitor adapt, if the staff even bothered to follow the new procedures, that was. Trying to burst into the kitchen and steal something would only work once. And the math just wasn’t too kind to the idea of a secret potato farm in his bedroom.

The only solution, as far as he could see, was to eat out. To go out, into the world, where Adam was undoubtedly hiding, and wander around some low security, highly crowded, locations in search of food.

Schwarz was unlikely to allow it, Mr. S guessed.

Schwarz… the thought came, and he ran over everything he knew about her, trying desperately to convince himself that there was no way she was the traitor. Unfortunately, Mr. S had taken too many formal logic classes to conclude anything other than: “inconclusive” on the matter.

Another pang of hunger hit Mr. S.

And, this... wasn’t like any ordinary hunger. This… was not funny. He doubled over at the almost physical pain that just wouldn’t go away. Every waking moment, it was on his mind. It would subside, for a time, just long enough for him not to acclimate, but then… there it was...there again!

His heart was beating sickeningly, and he was weak, and everything seemed to take effort. He passed by another mirror, and the dark bands under his eyes paid witness to his insomnia. And, every morning he had to wake up with that fake smile on his face and play the perfect host to every asshole that shared a work schedule with him. And he just wanted to scream!

* * *

Of course, at this point, we must note that what was transcribed above was... a rough translation of the thoughts which ran through Mr. S's mind.

We will now be returning to and recapping the unvarnished truth of Mr. S's scattered imagination.

Because, you see, Mr. S had some degrees, and there was this guy, Dostoyevky, that had some questions. And, Mr. S just felt very hungry, and hadn't slept in days, and Oh Man look at him in the mirror! Anyway, he was probably going to starve to death. So, there was that. And yeah, the potato farm wasn't going to woerk out even if he did manage to truck in all the dirt required. And, there was the hunger again! What was he thinking about? Oh, right, the... the... what was it? Schwarz wasn't a traitor was she?

And…

And...

What the fuck! Why was he starving! Why had he spent two hours working out the carrying capacity of a potato farm in a bedroom! What was wrong with him!

Abruptly, he interrupted his fourth tantrum of the morning, and breathed meditatively.

Hunger. Hunger was the mind killer. He couldn’t let this thing beat him. He was just hungry, and his thoughts were jumbled. He would just have to think his way out of this. He knew there had to be a solution -- there always was.

Mr. S organized his thoughts very carefully and deliberately. He clutched onto that constant thread, just for a moment of lucidity. He had to stop thinking about the hunger.

And… in that bubble of calm he’d managed to seclude himself in, was the answer!

There it was!

Oh.. oh yes!

Oh my god!

Holy…!

This… this was beautiful!

This was a solution to trump Euclid!

It came to him like lightning, so sudden it was, so divorced from any of his previous musings, so elegant!

It was genius! It was art! This is something that could never have occurred to him, not in a million years of original thought! This was something out of the ether! This was something so amazing, so novel, that he knew he would never be able to replicate it! And to think, the solution to it all was so simple! And it had so many other applications as well!

He had to write it down!

But… there wasn’t really any paper around, Mr. S thought. He’d just trust himself to remember it. No way he’d forget something like-

NO! No, no, no, no. That wasn’t happening again! He’d learned that painful lesson two hundred times too many.

Mr. S pulled out his scroll, fumbling with the fingerprint, and repeating the core tenets of the solution in his head like a mantra as he worked to pull out the note taking application.

Oh, this was going to be amazing.

This was awesome!

This was going to solve all his problems!

“Mr. Schnee!”

Aaaaand, it was gone.

“Mr. Schnee!” the voice came again, demanding.

Mr. S… was exceedingly calm, held hostage by his need to remember.

“Just… just one moment,” he held his hand up, shutting his eyes and trying desperately to recall the idea.

“No! No, I will not be waiting just one moment!” the voice retorted, shrill with determination -- the same kind of determination that had caused Mr. S to classify reporters as necessary evils. “I have a family to think about, Mr. Schnee, and I will not be waiting for one more second while you continue to ignore me!”

Poof! I’m never coming back again! The idea seemed to yell joyfully down at him as it floated away into the stratosphere like a gentrified Mary Poppins.

Mr. S’ phone was bending and creaking in his grip, digging trenches into his skin; he turned a gaze onto the source of the voice, and there stood an... ordinary looking butler -- one, who, when he saw the expression carved into Mr. S’s face, began to show a lot less determination than his voice had earlier acceded to.

“Yes?” Mr. S asked, drawing the word out like it was on a rack.

“Uh…”

“What?” Mr. S asked, “What could it possibly bet?”

“Well, It’s just that-”

“Get to the point!” Mr. S yelled.

“My wedding, sir.” The butler said.

Mr. S felt himself growing from angry to livid, grinding his teeth so hard that he momentarily lost the ability to speak.

The butler, reading the situation, hurried onward.

“Well, according to tradition, it is meant to be supported by the house. But, when I initially submitted it for approval, it... wasn’t…” He paused a short second, eyes bouncing in time with the narrative as he ran over it in his head. “...suffice it to say, sir. It’s now been delayed for four years. And, considering recent events, I feared it might be delayed yet longer. Not, that I'm complaining. I just wanted to… get some information about its current status!”

The butler, all throughout the sentence, looked to be on the verge of fleeing; cringing.

Mr. S... was smiling. And never had he felt more thankful for that semester in Moscow; because, not only had his experiences in the Soviet Union prepared him for the sudden lack of food, but he’d also attended several russian weddings. And, there, at those colorful weddings, he’d engaged in what was perhaps the most memorable conversation of his life. It was a wonder he’d forgotten it until now.

* * *

Mr. S wandered around the glimmering samovars, watching as the people cheered and celebrated for the happy couple. Alone and friendless as he was, Mr. S felt drawn to, and had a natural affinity for, the similarly lonely people he could spot stalking around the party. This did not, however, mean that he at all wanted to talk to any of them.

It seemed he wouldn’t be getting a choice, however.

“Hey!” A voice called, soft despite its insistence.

Mr. S turned his head indistinctly towards the main floor.

“Hey!” the voice called again.

And Mr. S turned to a man hunched over the buffet counter. The man, a kebab lightly in one hand, supported himself with an elbow on the table.

“You are american? Right?” the man asked.

“Uh, yes.” Mr. S said, sounding very much like a lost college student. “How did you know?”

“I am KGB,” the man answered casually, lifting his coat to reveal a pistol in proof. “It is my business to know.”

“Uh…”

“Oh. Don’t worry. If you were spy, we would not be talking here.”

“Uh…”

“Listen. I do you a favor. I give you knowledge. It might save life some day.”

“Uh…”

“Do you see this?” The man assertively lifted the kebab, brandishing it like a revolutionary leader might brandish recently gotten food. “This is kebab.”

“Uh…”

“Do you know why I eat this?” The man took a savory bite. “Do you know why?”

“...no?” Mr. S answered, feeling as if he’d answered wrong.

“I eat this, because we are at wedding,” the man answered.

Mr. S resolved himself to silence, trying to exit this conversation as soon as possible. But, seeing that the man had himself fallen silent in turn, Mr. S found that he couldn’t help himself, and asked: “What does the fact that we’re at a wedding have to do with anything?”

“Russian maxim,” the man answered, “‘It is impossible to poison food at wedding.’”

“Uh…”

“It means this,” the man clarified, tossing the kebab stick in with the other unwashed dishes and wiping his hands clean with some hand paper, “to poison man in own home. It is easy. Simple. Just poison food in house, or bribe servant.”

“Well, couldn’t you-”

“But! To poison man at wedding, impossible.”

“But…”

“Impossible!” The man asserted, more strongly. “For one, there is tons of food, in constant rotation, none of it guaranteed to reach mark. Not to mention, even if you wanted to poison entire party, working out the timing and dosages would be nightmare. For some people eat sooner and are less resistant. They would be… how do you say… canary in coal mine.”

“So, you’re eating here because you know it’s impossible to poison food at a wedding…” Mr. S said, struggling to follow the train of the conversation.

“Yes” -- the man answered -- “unless... the food is not catered. If someone has control of kitchen, then anything is possible. But, if food is catered, from outside source, it is safest place to eat.” Mwah! The man kissed his fingertips as if relishing a delicacy.

“Uh…”

“That!” the man gestured, “is why I eat food here at wedding. Never can trust food anywhere else.”

“...Ok.”

“Bah!” the man threw out his hands. “You Americans never appreciate good advice. Just remember who told you if it saves life one day.”

“Uh, ok… What is your name, by the way?”

“I not tell you yet. I am KGB.”

“I… take it you already know my name, then?” Mr. S asked, growing increasingly worried.

“Oh, ha!” the man laughed. “No, we not memorize name of every college student. We simply give you code names based on time of arrival and danger level.”

Mr. S couldn’t help himself. “What’s my codename?” he asked.

“Mr. S,” the Russian replied incidentally, pulling out a pager and checking through its settings.

“What does that stand for?”

“The ‘Mr.’ indicates you are male. The ‘S’... well, that is secret.”

“Well, I still haven’t gotten your name, Mr…”

“I not tell you last name; it is confidential. I give you first name to remember me by.”

“Ok, what is your first name, then?”

“Vladimir.”

* * *

Thank you, Vladimir. Mr. S thought earnestly. He turned an increasingly dark smile onto the butler.

“You know,” Mr. S began, increasingly frantic butterflies whirling in his stomach, “four years is far too long for anyone to wait. You will have your wedding, that I can promise.”

“Oh!” the man almost choked in surprise. “Really? That’s great to hear! When-”

“Today,” Mr. S answered.

“Uh…”

“We’re going to have the wedding today,” Mr. S said simply, putting a polite, but firm, hand onto the younger man’s shoulders.

* * *

And so, later that day, there was a wedding.

The Schnee Manor garden, in expected fashion, was opulent.

Well, actually, ‘opulent’ would probably be understating it quite a bit. This place came with its own space heaters and artificial atmosphere. Water jets crowded the lawn like grass stalks, and, through the snow, Mr. S was sure he could see tropical flowers growing!

Yeah, this wasn’t opulence, this made Versailles look British.

But that was not the center of Mr. S’s attention that day. No, for while the tents were being set up, and the servants moved the lawn chairs into place, there, in the background, another intercontinental bullhead was unloading a crowd of confused people.

The bride and her family, having been allocated special accomodations on a private flight, were among the first to arrive, and therefore already engaged in conversation with Mr. S.

“Well…” the older woman smiled politely, “we… uh… are certainly thankful… very thankful, for your agreement to pay for the wedding! We uh…”

“Oh, don’t consider it a favor!” Mr. S replied with a polite smile. “Consider it instead as a repayment, for all the delays you’ve faced because of our… scheduling failures here. And, really, I can only say that I feel I haven’t done enough.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” the woman smiled, and bobbed her head like it was on a faulty spring. “It was just that… uh.... Two hours ago, we were in our home, in Minstrel, ready to go to bed, and then two strange men showed up and put us in a bullhead and now we’re here!” She gestured to their surroundings. “And it turns out we’re having a wedding, too!” She turned her smile onto her future son in law. “It’s just, uh, two hours ago we were about to go to bed… in Minstrel! And now we’re here! And those two men in the glasses didn’t tell us their names!”

She said all of this with enthusiastic happiness, broken up by a chipped quality in her hard voice.

“Oh, well, in such short circumstances, we felt we had to expedite the family gathering process. Otherwise this could have taken months. You understand. All Travel expenses are covered, naturally, and you can return immediately home after the wedding.”

“But, we don’t have our passports!”

“Border control won’t take any issue,” Mr. S assured with an easy smile. “And, if they do -- refer them to me.”

Off to the side, the future bride was sitting in a lawn chair, legs crossed chastely underneath the long skirt of her summer dress. She was a sweet woman with a sweet smile, and appeared to take all of the joy of the sudden events without any of the worry.

“Well, we certainly are thankful, Mr. Schnee,” the woman said, rising with a curtsey. “My family and I are very new to this Schnee Family, business, but, if you’d hear the way my fiance talks about you, one could swear you were a descendant of the gods!”

“Oh, perhaps I’ve tried too hard to appear regal. It can be such a bother, walking so straight backed all the time.”

“Oh, haha,” the woman laughed a melodious laugh, the rest of the family joining in. “He never said anything about you being so funny! To be honest, I was kind of nervous to meet with you. One always hears so many harsh things.”

“Oh, I try not to over obsess about the small things; It’s the secret to a long life, after all-”

“Sir,” Schwarz interrupted their talk, coming out onto the courtyard to join them. “The catering company isn’t dealing. They’re saying they don’t fulfill orders unless they’re made two weeks in advance.”

“What!” Mr. S yelled.

* * *

In the absence of appropriate planes, tranes, and automobiles, often the best way to traverse a hundred miles of wind-blasted tundra -- was on horseback.

Granted, these horses had awakened auras and a cruising speed of 200 miles per hour, but those were details in the larger scheme of things, and McGarnagle could see the mining town rise over the northern horizon.

The horse’s hoofbeats, up until this point a humming mass of noise, reverted to the more distinct, thundering, effect as the animal slowed.

Icy ground broke up as the animals cantered to a stop. Above them passed the broken arch of the main gate of Ika Fraza, the Schnee Dust Company’s northernmost mining town, as well as Atlas’s main supplier of Ice Dust.

McGarnagle dismounted, and Melva, over the jangle of his stirrup, managed a small whisper.

“I get the feeling Adam may have more allies here than we do.”

McGarnagle didn’t bother to look back at the staring locals as he readjusted his saddle. They were a lot he’d seen before: overworked, alcoholic, husbands, their demure wives and reckless children. The surrounding buildings were all ramshackle and bust, empty shells filled with heating units. Several huts, with broken units or stripped insulation were abandoned, and the local population of faunus weren’t looking too kindly at their intrusion into their small town.

McGarnagle knew that, somewhere among them, was someone who could tell him where Adam was. He knew that, somewhere among them, was a person who no longer had the keys that were now in Adam’s hands.

Of course, he didn’t have a warrant, he couldn’t use his semblance to interrogate them. It… wouldn’t do to have someone like him invading the privacy of ordinary citizens on the whims of suspicion, he’d been told.

But, that didn’t mean he was completely barred from the use of his semblance. Often, McGarnagle did his best work without asking a single question. He simply lifted the veil, and disappeared into the background. It was amazing what people would let loose at bars when they thought the police weren’t watching.

As McGarnagle leashed his horse, and headed to the bar, however, he didn’t try to hide. Quite the opposite, in fact. Feeling the pressure of time, and sensing the rising tension, he kicked through the swinging, western-styled doors of the bar, and lifted the veil, his shadow primed to fill the room.

Immediately, there was an explosion of activity from the local patrons. Everyone in his immediate vicinity burst away as if they’d been zapped with a cattle prod. A dozen pairs of eyes trained themselves with laser focus onto the mysterious figure; and the local maid, having the advantage of distance, had plastered herself against the far wall, a dropped tray and broken glassware clattering at her feet.

McGarnagle was painted in dark and malevolent shadows, and had taken the figure of someone dangerous, someone bleak. The effect was somewhat helped by the fact that he’d neglected to conceal his gun. For, at his side, hanging at his hip, was a weighty slug of Iron: an oversized six-shooter with one-pound bullets for rounds.

It was perhaps to McGarnagle’s credit, that everyone feared his shadow more.

McGarnagle claimed a spot from the suddenly empty stretch of seats before the bar. And, in the sudden quiet that had overtaken the place, his voice carried well.

“I’m an Atlas Ranger,” McGarnagle announced, “I’m here to take Adam Taurus, alive, dead, anyway he wants to come.”

McGarnagle slapped down a stack of bills into the counter. “For the glasses,” he said, shattered glassware still heard from where it rattled at the maid’s feet.

* * *

In such a small town, such a short piece of news carried well and carried fast. And it wasn’t too long before it reached Adam’s ears.

“Atlas Ranger?” Adam asked.

“That’s what he called himself,” the messenger nodded obsequiously, not looking up from where he bowed.

“What do you think, General?” Adam asked.

The general, who refused to look up from where his legs had been lashed to the chair’s, was a sorry sight, and, in particular, one of the sights the messenger sought to avoid the most.

“I think It matters little, at this point. Your plan was foolproof,” he spat. “Nothing could stop you, not even reason, as it turned out.”

“You still believe I lack reason? You talk as if I don’t know,” Adam’s words filled the broken hut, heard well over the whistling wind that penetrated through the ill-fit wall panels. And his every breath seemed to fog in the air, sparkling with ice crystals. He didn’t much feel like taking one of the working huts from the families.

“Don’t know what?” the general asked, looking up for the first time.

“That you betrayed me in Vale.”

“What?”

“That you withheld necessary supplies from me. That you lied to me about the supplies you were sending, and instructed others to lie to me on your behalf.” Adam was calm despite the accusations; he paced back and forth, hands deliberately held away from his weapons.

“We…” the general trailed.

“What?” Adam asked. “You what?”

“There are others who need our supplies, Adam. You do not have any rights to them above and beyond our faunus brothers!”

“Haha! ‘Our faunus brothers.’” Adam quoted. “That certainly is rich coming from you ice eaters.”

The general snarled at that turn of phrase.

“Do not forget who you’re speaking to, Adam! You ungrateful whelp! Do not forget how many died to free you from that gods-forsaken hole we dug you out of!”

Adam, was unfazed.

“But, that’s just what you do, isn’t it?” he said, sounding distant. “You take a faunus from the mines, lavish him in the glory of not being whipped too often, and expect him to lap at your feet for the gracious treatment. You promise him freedom, you preach equality, you send him to do your dirty work, and then you hope he dies before he sees through it all. And, if he doesn’t die, you work to kill him. Isn’t that right”

“We do not simply preach! Just look at yourself-”

“Look at him!” Adam gestured suddenly to the faunus bowing at his feet. “Where I come from, I treated all Faunus as my brothers, and I cared for them. We bled for each other, and in that way we were equal. But him...” he gestured again to the bowing faunus. “Is this how the faunus of Solitas behave after a generation under your care?”

“Oh, and you think your self serving idealism can undo what you’ve done? You destroyed us! Whatever our failings, how can they compare to what you’ve done to the white fang!”

“Say that one more time!” Adam drew his sword. “You have nothing to lose, so I don’t see why you continue to lie! You betrayed me! You lied about the supplies, you lied about the information, you lied about our chances of victory, and ten thousand faunus were decimated in Vale! You sent everything off to those quislings in Vacuo because they had the right names, and you don’t even care, do you! You don’t even care about the damage you’ve done to my white fang!” Adam slammed a closed fist against his chest at the word “my”.

And the old general seemed to grow older; his shoulders sagged.

“We… were not in the position to… There were certain elements that were against you. That is true. Whatever you may think, it was not the highest leadership. You and Sierra may have had your disagreements, but she was never one to break the procedures.”

“Then who…”

“No one and everyone. We simply had a precedence order to fulfill. But, we did not lie, and this is no reason to do what you’ve done. It’s not too late, Adam, to salvage-”

“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?” Adam said. “You’re not coming out of this room alive, so you shouldn’t feel the need to lie, either way.”

“What, do you mean?”

“I mean, that I know what you’ve all done. Maybe you didn’t intend to destroy anyone but me, but you succeeded beyond your wildest expectations. And now... my branch is gone.” Adam, gripped his upper arm with painful sincerity. “The White Fang is dead. Why should I salvage the wastes left behind up here? Why should I save you, who’ve done everything to undermine our vision? Why should you deserve to live, when the rest of us who are fighting are an acceptable sacrifice? What is the use of a logistics network, when it has no one to supply?”

“We didn’t mean for it-”

“And, you underestimated me,” Adam continued. “You thought I would die, or that if I survived, that I wouldn’t find those responsible.”

“You’re-”

“Not as dumb as you thought I was? I know many things you couldn’t dream of glimpsing, General. I rose through the ranks because I understood all of your failures. I knew you could never suspect me of knowing, even as I killed you all off.”

“So… all of this carnage-!”

“It wasn’t planned, but I certainly wasn’t doing it on a whim,” Adam shifted his left shoulder. The cold had taken to aching it.

“Then, what was the purpose of this ludicrous plan? What of the line and the planes!”

“Oh, I certainly intend to carry that off.”

“Why?”

“To show Blake the consequences of her actions.”

“Petty revenge,” the general spat.

“Oh, no. I’ve known Blake for far longer than anyone else, General. I know what her natural instinct will be. Maybe she won’t come after the first attack, or the second, or the sixth, but, eventually, she’ll realize -- and she’ll come back to me. If only to stop it all. And then, I’ll stop... and I’ll take her away with me, and together we’ll live our lives away from all of this!”

“You’re delusional!”

Adam only chuckled a familiar chuckle. “And they shall reject him, who has borne witness to the truth,” quoting the familiar passage those nun’s had recited over him during his rehabilitation from the mines. He really didn’t believe in their gods, even to this day. But, considering they were taking care of him for free, he supposed he could bother to remember some quotes. And, to his surprise, he found a surprising amount of truth in them.

“And, you, I take it, have seen the truth?” the general was breathing exclusively through his nostrils, the cold taking root in his voice.

“I’ve seen some truths. And I know things you refuse to see. For example, I know that this mysterious ‘Atlas Ranger’ is McGarnagle.”

The general nearly choked.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Adam calmed. “You won’t have the opportunity to meet him. I plan to kill you before then.”

The general was not calmed by this.

“McGarnagle is not one to be-”

“Trifled with, I’ve heard,” Adam turned away, growing bored and gripping a hand onto his sword handle.

“You fool! You’ve no idea how great a danger-!”

Suddenly, Adam whipped about -- pulling out his blade with a flash -- and, abruptly, stopped. Adam, frozen in a low crouch, held the flat of his blade inches from the general’s eyes.

“Do you see, General,” Adam remarked, pushing the blade yet closer.

There, barely visible against the red finish, were twenty, light marks scratched into the surface of the metal.

“These,” Adam continued, “are a record of every great battle I’ve broken. Every, so-called, invincible opponent I’ve felled. This man, this McGarnagle, will be nothing more to me than number 21.”

“You, on the other hand -- “ Adam stepped back, lifting the sword into a ready position “ -- will not get even that honor.”

* * *

“What!” Mr. S screamed. “What do you mean they only take orders two weeks in advance!”

Schwarz took it in stride, understanding well that, while he was yelling, he wasn’t yelling at her, per say.

The bride, however, was far more appeasing.

“Oh! Please don’t be mad Mr. Schnee. We don’t really need any fancy catering, anyhow! We’re perfectly happy to have a wedding without it. We can just get some food from your mess halls!”

No good, Ivan said that wouldn’t work! Is what Mr. S would have said if the poor, confused, bride had understood the context of the situation.

Instead, he defaulted to the far more understandable:

* * *

“Look, Ruby!” Weiss said with strained patience. “He doesn't just need someone to talk to, and I don’t care what your instincts are telling you. I’m the one who’s spent seventeen years dealing with him! Now, for the last time, could you just promise me you won’t talk to him anymore!”

Ruby was adamant, and took the moment to catch up as they rounded the corner.

“But, he just seems like he cares! I mean, he did stand up for you at the dinner.”

“Yeah, not to mention, he got Whitley to apologize to Blake,” Yang gestured at the cat-girl.

“And he’s holding that wedding today!” Ruby said, smiling on the backswing. “I mean, he even got those military guys to cancel that airshow so that more guests could arrive!”

“Look, first of all, I’m the one who got Whitley to apologize! And, second of all, the wedding doesn’t matter! He’s probably doing it for his own benefit somehow! He’s evil, and he doesn’t care about anything!”

Weiss said this just as they walked into the garden.

And there was Mr. Schnee, talking to Schwarz and the collected trimuverate of the Bride’s family.

“No! That won’t work! This wedding has to be absolutely perfect!” Mr. S yelled.

Again, the bride tried to intervene, standing up from her chair. “But, really, Mr. Schnee, I’d be perfectly happy with the kitchen staff-”

“Sit down,” Mr. S told her, gesturing her back into her seat, “We’re going to get catering, and frankly, I feel like the rest of you just don’t care! There! I said it!”

Weiss decided that she'd had enough of today, for today.

* * *

“Like I said, it has to be perfect!” Mr. S reiterated. “We’re only getting one shot at this, people!”

The second maid came, shuffling stacks of printer paper in her hands, and looking very haggard as she did so. It wasn’t often one did an instant wedding.

“Uh, sir,” the second maid croaked, “the musicians have cancelled.”

“We’ll go without, then!” Mr. S quickly turned back to Schwarz. “Anyway, about the catering.”

“But, sir, they really only do take orders two weeks in advance. I imagine that probably is how long it takes to prepare the meals.”

“Ugh!” Mr. S sighed into his hands. This was getting hopeless. But… there was still an inkling of intuition that sparked him to ask: “Schwarz… what company does the catering?”

“Uh, Catering Inc., sir. They’re the only company in the city that provides professional catering services.”

“And, are they wholly owned, or a subsidiary?”

Schwarz, translating that question into something that made sense, answered, “They’re a subsidiary of Wedding Planners and Sons Corporation, sir.”

“Huh, Wedding Planners and Sons,” Mr. S scrunched his brows, and driving on instinct, asked on. “Who owns them, Schwarz?”

Schwarz typed furiously onto her tablet. “Pary Inc., sir.”

“And who owns them?”

“General Industries.”

“And who owns them?”

“Uh… Dog Incorporated.”

“And… who owns them?”

“Atlesean Motor Company.”

“And, who owns them?”

“Terra Energy Corporation”

“And who owns them?”

“EA”

“And, who owns them?”

“Microsoft”

“Wait, what?”

“You, know, the software company. Microsoft Letter, Excel, Workpoint?”

“Ok,” Mr. S shook his head, “and who owns them?”

“Terracotta Industries, sir.”

“And who owns them?”

“White Tiger and Associates,”

“And them?”

“Atlas Robotics.”

“And them?”

“Mega Corp Incorporated, sir.”

“And, who owns them, Schwarz?” Mr. S asked, feeling out of breath.

Schwarz paused a moment, tapping and re tapping at her tablet as she smoothly traversed between screens.

Schwarz blinked, and worked a bit longer as if to confirm the fact.

“Uh… apparently we do, sir,” Schwarz said, “SCHNEE Company bought them out eight years ago for one hundred billion Lien.”

“Schwarz.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I think you know what to do.”

* * *

Sakura Terracotta, CEO of Terracotta Industries, had been having a great nap until she got the call.

She even said as much.

“You know?” she said to the CEO of White Tiger and Associates, “I was having a great nap until you called me.”

“Yeah, so was I until Atlas Robotics called me!” They said, almost yelling into the speaker. “And so will Microsoft until you call them! The point is, just get it done so I can get back to the rest of my life!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sakura said, fumbling blindly for her pen and notepad, “what did you say they wanted again? Catering for a party?”

“A wedding!” the figure corrected, “they want catering for a full sized wedding! And they want it in two hours!”

“What! That’s bullshit! I don’t even work in that business and I know that’s not happening.”

“Yeah, well, the wedding is at the Schnee Manor.”

“...Fuck!”

“Hey, just be glad It’s not our problem! It’s Catering Incorporated's problem!”

“Oh yeah,” Sakura said, feeling much better about herself as she hung up and phoned Microsoft.

* * *

McGarnagle was a sundial, a spire of shadows that beget more shadows onto the ice-capped main road of the mining town.

Melva was there, too.

Adam, true to his word, was on the far end of the pathway, just beyond the primitive clocktower. He was alone, and his hands were far from his hilt.

“McGarnagle,” Adam greeted quietly, his voice carried on the chill winds that funneled through the center street.

“Adam,” McGarnagle responded, unfazed.

“How about we agree beforehand, on the-”

CLANG!

Melva’s short sword appeared next to McGarnagle’s eye, it was ringing like a bell and McGarnagle could make out a small skiff where the bullet had been deflected.

What McGarnagle hadn’t made out, however, was the shooter.

“Told you I’d save your ass,” Melva smirked, before turning that smirk into a more confident look, and turning her sword down to point at a nearby street sign. “And you!” Melva announced, overflowing with bravura, “I take it, are one of those sneaky illusionist types I have so much fun hunting down!”

The street sign dissipated like shattering sugar crystals, and Neo took a bow.

“So, I take it our agreement is annulled?” Melva turned her voice onto Adam, who shrugged indifferently as he fell to a ready stance.

“I’ll take the ice-cream girl, you handle Adam,” Melva said, and suddenly burst fire several well-placed shots in Neo’s direction.

Neo jumped back with a flip, landing with her hands and transitioning to a sliding crouch.

McGarnagle, meanwhile, was suddenly called upon to block Adam, who appeared before him and hit him hard enough to send him crashing into a nearby building.

McGarnagle righted himself in midair as he tumbled through the wall. The building had apparently been dug several stories into the ground, and it took several seconds for him to land. All around him was darkness; above, the dim beacon of light where he’d burst in. Briefly, the light was obscured, and a clack of noise on the far side of the building indicated Adam’s arrival.

“You know,” Adam’s voice came, swave and confident, “I don’t know much about you, human, but I bet you’re not quite so used to fighting in the dark as I am, are you?” Adam’s voice reverberated in the empty cavern of a building, and the light seemed insubstantial against the tarry blackness of the surrounding space.

McGarnagle stood in place, seeming to be the only thing illuminated by the light.

McGarnagle pulled up his shadow, and melted into the surrounding darkness.

* * *

Melva’s eyes were spotlights against the alley shadows.

“Not very smart of you to come here,” she smirked, sending Neo into a nearby warehouse with a harsh kick.

Neo, previously disguised as an abandoned desert trolley, shifted into a compact ball, flipping and landing lightly in the abandoned warehouse, and panting profusely as she snarled out into the sudden darkness she found herself in. Briefly, a laugh and two glimmering objects betrayed themselves before another round of burst fire forced her to dodge away.

* * *

“Your Semblance won’t help you here, McGarnagle!” Adam yelled. “I know you’re the only other person in the room! And I know this place inside out! If you honestly think some shadows are enough to-”

Adam paused mid turn. He’d seen a man while he was talking, back when he’d still been facing the shelving units. He knew he’d seen the man, and he knew that McGarnagle was the only other person in the room…

With great panic, Adam turned back around, hoping McGarnagle hadn’t found another hiding place.

There, he calmed himself as he observed the scene. Everything was as he’d set it up before the fight. There were the shelves, the dust stores, the shadowy man...

Adam turned back with a disappointed sigh, and, the moment his eyes left the scene, blinked again in great panic!

* * *

Melva, despite her best efforts, was finding it very hard to tag the woman.

Neo, reacting on instinct, turned and twisted with straining effort, trying to roll with the hits. A sudden duck let a cluster of bullets fly over her back. She again stabbed into the darkness with her parasol, and missed.

The fight was going rather well for her, all things considered.

Suddenly, something snagged her foot and she transitioned into an emergency one-handed cartwheel to catch herself, dodging another slice of the short sword with a sudden flex of her wrist and snapping open her umbrella to the shuddering rain of lead that came from her opponent.

* * *

And there, Adam calmed himself as he observed the scene.

It was exactly as he’d left it before the fight. There were the shelves, the stores of dust, the mysterious man that was to be ignored.

Adam turned back with disappointment -- and then, for the fifteenth time, his eyes suddenly widened in great panic!

He turned around, except this time there was no man. There was, however, a five inch slug coming for him.

Adam trained his sword on the round, a banging spark as metal hit metal. His arm rattled with the shock of the impact and his feet jolted against the sudden acceleration; his body sliding back across the floor until he hit the far wall. Elsewhere, McGarnagle could be heard scampering madly beyond the hidden objects.

Adam, sword glowing now with the energy of the impact, rushed forward to intercept. Turning the corner, and raising his sword, he slashed down blindly.

And, there beyond the turn, was… nothing of importance, as far as Adam could deduce.

Too committed to his sword swing, Adam settled for not wasting the stored energy. His inert weapon, glowing though it was, was caught in the crook of the mysterious man’s upheld gun. Adam, signing with frustration, turned away from the deliriously mumbling man. The man was saying something about timing, far as he could ascertain.

Shrugging, Adam went back to the center of the room.

And, then, at some undetermined moment… his eyes widened in great panic!

* * *

“You know, you’re really, really annoying.”

Neo smirked and decided to take that as a great complement, a bullet grazing her shoulder as she worked her way indistinctly across the darkened room. Stopping in a low crouch, she readied a pounce and looked suddenly up to, what had the entire time, been her real goal: the one glass window that had yet to be boarded up.

Too quick for even her own awareness to catch on, she made the leap and slid beautifully out into the evening sunlight, glimmering shards humming all around her with razor notes.

Melva was quick to copy the woman, joining her out onto the rooftops just as the explosion rocked through the street.

* * *

“Gahhh!” Adam roared, blocking yet another monstrously sized bullet.

With mad frustration, Adam sprinted forward faster than he’d ever moved, his rage pushing him into a blur as he positioned himself in the center of the building, ignoring the shadowy man, and sent out a concentric slash throughout the entire level, hitting the various dust stores located throughout the building.

Fire, Ice, Earth and Air, all mixed together into an expanding, hard stream of fire, and engulfed both of the men in steam.

As if hit by the apex of a pendulating hammer, both men were rocketed back onto mainstreet, feeling incredibly clear headed by the sudden weight of reality that had imposed itself on their bodies, and startled by the crimson sunlight which beamed through the empty road.

Both of them, operating on trained instinct, scrambled to right themselves against the icy ground which broke apart under their scorched forms.

They supported themselves at extreme angles to the tundra floor, they slowed and righted themselves with their crashing feet, and tumultuously, among the ongoing fires and howling winds whipping about their forms, righted themselves enough to attempt a rise.

They were forty feet apart, and their shadows loomed large against the crimson snow, flying away from the burning sunlight that blew at them. They both rushed to stand, and, to their senses, their bodies seemed sluggish against the racing clock, as they reached for their weapons, and looked to kill.

Here, time seemed to slow further for the two men. Glowing ripples ran across their bodies as their auras depleted against the face of the explosion, and they looked at one another. Their eyes met, and a moment of perfect understanding passed between them, one exclusive to people facing sudden death, when there was no time for words.

Adam’s hand was a flash, and pulled at his sword, moving it into a swing.

McGarnagle had already shot,

BANG!

The bullet outpaced its own sound, and it was deafening as it rang through his body. Shakily, he turned his head down. A great, happy warmth was flowing in his gut, and streaming blood fell like curtains from the oversized wound. It was a strange, rapturous feeling that hit him all of a sudden. His body seemed to tizz with sudden jolts where the bullet had passed through.

Was this what the nun’s had meant? “Death is the greatest joy?”

Adam felt his strength leaving him, though he didn’t feel weak.

“Blake?” he whispered, and darkness fell over his eyes.

He didn’t feel the impact. After that, a long and lonely moment passed, and he heard a shuffle of feet and the voice of that police woman. He was happy to hear it, though it was fading.

“Time of death, 11:21…”

* * *

“... body confirmed to be of Adam Taurus,” Melva finished, recording onto her scroll.

Neo, she wasn’t sure how, had gotten away from her when she’d rushed forward to support McGarnagle.

So, naturally, Melva was eager to change the subject.

“Jeez,” she said, looking at the larger of McGarnagle’s two guns. “Didn’t chief tell you not to fire that thing in city limits?”

“These aren’t city limits,” McGarnagle said.

“Technically, they are,” Melva said, taking one last picture of the scene before stuffing the scroll into her pocket. “Anyway, we should probably look for the other suspect.”

“Later,” McGarnagle said. “First, the planes.”

* * *

Mr. S stood impatiently on the sidelines as the wedding guests arranged themselves.

Come on, people, seating is in alphabetical order! Oh, come on, I know your last name doesn’t start with G!

Next to him, was a priest or vicar of some sort. He wasn’t sure what religion the man was pledged to, but it had some uncanny resemblances to Earth’s aberhamic faiths. Heck, he would’ve called them Christians if they weren’t polytheists.

“You know, sir. Forgive me for saying so” -- the man gestured with a hand and allowed his flowing, golden green robes to sway under him -- “but this does seem a rather sudden wedding.”

“It’s long overdue, in fact,” Mr. S said, smiling politely.

Come on, just forty five more minutes!

He resisted the urge to hop in place and clap happily.

“Hm… you really want to see this wedding through, don’t you?” the vicar asked.

“I guess you could say that.”

“Are you a friend of the couple?”

“I’m the patron of this house. It is my responsibility to sign off on these things.”

“Of course, but, if I may be so bold. I do observe that something seems to be troubling you.”

“Really?” Mr. S said shortly, hating the sudden reminder of his hunger.

“Yes, yes,” the vicar nodded sagely. “You are a rich man, with many distractions. Yet, you’ve somehow set yourself personally to the task of completing this wedding.”

“I’d do this for any member of the house,” Mr. S said honestly.

“I believe that,” the vicar said, “and I believe it is through that, that your soul shall be reborn.”

“...Pardon?”

“Oh, yes. You may not know it; but this sudden urge you feel to help these people -- it is your soul crying out. Despite your riches, your true-self hungers for a more meaningful existence, for an exercise of the moral senses.”

"After all," the vicar declared boldly. “Man can not live on bread alone!”

“Yeah, that’s not really the problem I’m having at the moment.” Mr. S said.

“Sir!” Schwarz came, “we have a problem!”

“What is it?” Mr. S asked, allowing himself to be taken aside to a private corner.

“The groom has cold feet!” Schwaz yelled even as she whispered.

“What! Get the best man on it!” Mr. S matched her tone.

“He’s still on route from Vacuo! And the groom wants to cancel now!”

“What!?”

“Yes. Most of the stuff has already been ordered, but I can still cancel the caterin-”

“No, Schwarz!”

“Then what are we supposed to do!”

Mr. S thought a moment, and asked:

“Where’s the groom?”

* * *

“Ok, look, this isn’t like you!” Mr. S said seriously, hands clasped together over his knees as he sat opposite from the nervously shuffling groom. “This isn’t the man who petitioned for four years to get married to the woman he loved. This isn’t the man who stood up to Mr. Schnee so that he could have a wedding the same day!”

“But what if the marriage doesn’t work out! What about her parents?”

“Then you’ll get a divorce,” Mr. S said, obviously. “I mean… It’s going to work out. Trust me.”

“But what if-”

“Ok, shut up,” Mr. S interrupted. And, the groom complied. “Close your eyes,” Mr. S ordered. And, again, the groom complied.

“Now,” Mr. S said after a moment’s silence. “I want you to clear your mind, and imagine that sunflower smiling girl you were talking in the garden with, earlier this morning. I want you to remember her smile, and her laugh, and everything about her that made you want to get married in the first place...are you doing that?”

“Yes.”

“Now, tell me, quickly, yes or no. Look into her face, and tell me. Would you leave her for anything?”

“No.”

“Can you look at that face, and see anything but your purpose for living?”

“No!”

“Do you love her!”

“Yes! Oh, gods, yes! I love her!”

“Then there you have it! You have something special here! Something they only dream about in the story books. You have love at food… I mean, at first sight! Am I wrong!?”

“No!”

“Then go out there, and marry that woman!”

* * *

“I can’t marry them!”

The vicar groaned. His robes spilled about his prone form as he lay on one of the benches.

The crowd was gathered underneath one of the exterior hallways that lined the garden. Large, marble columns bordered the length of it, with empty air in between.

"Get back from him, everyone!" The house doctor yelled, holding a wet cloth over the vicar’s forehead.

“How do you feel!” She asked, looking patiently into the man’s bright eyes.

“Oh, I’ll live,” he said with a weary chuckle.

“What’s wrong, specifically?”

“Oh, just sudden weakness. Lightness of head, you know, that sort of thing.”

“Ok, that’s it. The wedding’s off!” the doctor said with painful finality. “He’s in no state to perform any ceremonies!”

Mr. S felt the world take a turvy turn. And, behind him, in the far corner of the world, he could hear Schwarz saying: “We can still cancel the catering, sir.”

“No!” he said, turning to Schwarz, “Why are you always trying to cancel the catering? Why don’t you cancel the streamers for once!" he said, gesturing up to the plain columns. "And we’re not canceling anything, by the way!” He spoke in a desperate way, and didn’t let up when he turned to the vicar. “Is there no other way?” He asked. “Are there no other vicars?”

“Oh, the monastery’s strictly closed at this time of night. They do not accept arrivals or take requests, except in emergencies.”

“Would-”

“And this is not an emergency,” the man chuckled, a sly tone coming to his voice. “… however,” he continued, letting the crowd hang on the word.

“However?” Mr. S said.

“One does not need to be a vicar to perform a wedding ceremony.”

“Really?”

“Yes, you can just take an online course and get certified that way.”

“How do you get certified!” A woman, the bride’s aunt called hopefully from the crowd.

“You just have to memorize this,” the vicar shuffled around in his robes, and pulled out a forty-five page book, “and take a test!”

The book was lightly bound with navy blue velvet, and it’s title read, written in ornate, gold lettering, “Conducting A Wedding Ceremony In Forty Five Easy Pages.”

All of the crowd recoiled from the task.

“It’s a dense book,” the vicar announced, “single spaced, times new Atlesian, twelve point font, no bibliography or introduction… and no pictures.”

The silence grew hard, and the dispiriting whispers grew.

“Times new Atlesian!”

“Fourty five pages!”

“That’s impossible!”

Everyone was stepping back, and even the ever hopeful bride seemed to have lost hope and accepted her fate of being mildly inconvenienced until tomorrow evening.

Everyone thought themselves inadequate before the task.

Everyone that was… except our hero!

“I’ll do it.” Mr. S’s voice came, soft and carrying easily through the night air.

Five dozen pairs of eyes turned onto him, and the immediate crowd seemed to recoil from his proclamation.

“You must understand,” the vicar said with unrelenting grimmness, “one does not simply pass the wedding ceremony test. You must memorize this book, learn it inside out, commit yourself to making no mistakes!”

“I have a good memory,” Mr. S shrugged. “I’ll take that into the library and I’ll come back out in thirty minutes. I’ll take the test under the Vicar’s supervision, and, if you’ll have me,” he bowed slightly in the direction of the bride’s family, “I’ll conduct the wedding.”

Slowly, shyly, the bride nodded.

And, confidently, Mr. S stuck his hand out in the direction of the vicar.

“I’ll have the book, if you please!”

And they said that second Masters wasn’t worth it.

* * *

“I now pronounce you, husband… and wife.” Mr. S, bedecked in the billowy folds of his vicar’s robe, raised his left arm with a slow, regal motion, index and middle finger adjusted to just the right angle.

“You may now kiss.”

And they kissed.

And the crowd went wild!

After the cheering subsided, Mr. S took the moment to commandeer the mic.

“Uh… excuse me. Excuse me!” he called, gathering attention. “I regret to inform you that, due to a malfunction with the sound system, we will be postponing the dance,” Mr. S said, voice carrying well through the sound system. “We are working to fix it as soon as possible, but… Until then...”

Mr. S smiled, and clapped his hands heartily.

“Let’s eat!”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	29. Chapter 29

**Book III**

**Chapter 29**

* * *

McGarnagle and Melva were in dismay.

Adam had outsmarted them.

The fight had delayed their arrival and -- by the time they’d reached it -- the last of the planes had already left the runway. Up in the air, the dust runners, hazard lights running dark, were in formation against the southern sky.

What followed was the largest terrorist attack in Atlas history. Although, the precise way in which it played out was quite peculiar, as everyone would later note. For, you see, no event can be separated from those leading up to it, and, in the leadup to this event -- there had been a wedding.

And, in the prelude to that wedding, a military airshow and training exercise had been abruptly cancelled.

And in the prelude to the cancellation, Mr. S had made a personal call to General Ironwood:

* * *

“I know this is sudden!” Mr. S agreed into his scroll, wringing his words, “but, I’ll explain later. Just trust me for now! I need you to cancel the exercise and lift the air restrictions over Atlas so that I can bring the guests in!

“You’d better have a good reason for this,” the general sighed, frustrated but calm.

“I do!” Mr. S implored, starving and irrational.

“Where am I even supposed to hold the fleet for the duration of this?’ Ironwood swung suddenly back around to his less agreeable phase, seeing in the complaint a chance to get out of this sudden promise he’d been cornered into.

“Just park them over the secondary Schnee palace! You know, the one we use to store all that dust! I’ll give you the rights for it.”

“Are you mad! I’m not putting anything over that! You do realize our aircraft have flaming exhausts!”

“Don’t worry! I’ll have Schwarz initiate an emergency lockdown, that’ll stop them from moving any dust around, and all the reserves are underground. There won’t even be any people in the building! Just cancel the airshow, please!” Mr. S was adamant; desperately so as he felt his stomach cannibalizing itself; and it showed in his pleas, which moved Ironwood just enough to agree.

“Very well, Jacques.” He replied. “They’ll be parked over the secondary palace at 1200. Gods, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

* * *

And, to the piloting dust runners, it sure seemed that way because, as they broke through the cumulus cloud cover and came into the clear skies over the glimmering city, what did they find hovering over their primary target except the entirety of the atlesian airfleet, guns pointed idly into the air.

The pilots, taking a perturbed moment to collect themselves, swiftly turned their attention to the secondary target.

The existence of this target, too, however, requires us to revisit contributing events.

* * *

Several years ago, Mr. Schnee was outraged.

“This is an outrage!” he yelled pacing back and forth before the council table.

“Call it what you like, Jaques,” Councilwoman Camilla said, more tired than aggressive, “the council has made its decision.”

“And I acknowledge that the council has made a decision. However, given that it is an obviously illegal decision, you must forgive my confusion on the matter.”

“And what is so confusing about the matter to you?” Camilla responded sarcastically. “The decision is very simple. We are ordering you to give up your primary dust palace to Green Co. They will pay you market price for it.”

“Oh, I’m far more concerned with what they’ve paid you,” Mr. Schnee was flexing his hand into a fist.

“Nothing.” Camilla was short on the matter. “We are not here to serve our financial interests. And, despite what you seem to think, we are not here to serve yours, either. We are here to serve Atlas; and we have decided that having some redundancy would be in the city’s best interest. Green Co. will be capped to maintaining 49% of the city’s dust supply. You will still have your secondary palace. I trust you’re competent enough to survive under those considerations.

Now, perhaps what Camilla had said was true. And, perhaps, it was fair.

What Mr. Schnee couldn’t stand, however, was how they’d ordered him to give up his _primary_ palace. Oh, it was an older palace, and it wasn’t quite as up to the standard of the new one, but to take his jewel away from him...

Mister Schnee, however, held his tongue, and accepted the payment at the coronation. He put on an easy face, and transferred the deed. He knew they were incompetent, and he hated how everyone seemed to laud them despite the fact that their labor record was worse than his! He supposed being unsuccessful enough to stay out of the limelight would do that. Still, he didn’t complain as he handed the deed over to the smiling executive. What could he say, after all? In these matters, after the council had so decided, he could do nothing.

* * *

The dust runners, however, were not so encumbered.

Seeing that the secondary palace was under impromptu protection, they trained their sights to the primary palace, which had, just two years ago, reached its cap of forty nine percent of Atlas dust reserves.

Atlas, one must remember, is a large city, with large dust requirements. And, being forward looking people -- the Atlesians -- they required that the dust palaces maintain enough reserve to last the city ten years. Of course, most of this was held safely in underground chambers, but, when the palaces were operational, at least 0.0001% of that reserve was liable to be, mid-transport, in the vulnerable, upper sections of the palace.

And, the Green co. palace, unlike the SCHNEE Corp. palace -- which had suddenly and completely shut down -- was still very much operational.

In fact, during the time of the attack, the Green corp palace had about 0.005% of its total reserve moving through its upper decks.

0.005% of enough dust to keep Atlas running for ten years.

One can imagine the resulting explosion.

Of course, we will not go over such boring details, but, suffice it to say, for generations, people would come to describe it as being… “like a force of nature.”

And what a force it was, that tore through the city. Even the sewage pipes had been violently ruptured, causing an unfortunate reenactment of the shit storm of 55’.

Still, the Mantleites had little to complain about despite that, at least when one compared their fate to Atlas’.

Almost everything felt the explosion, and very little in the immediate vicinity had been spared.

Although, of the things that had been spared, one could find it notable that the captain of General Industries -- a SCHN Corp. subsidiary -- had been kept from going to work that day because of a sudden -- catering related -- request that had waylaid him.

In fact, the entire entire industrial sector around the Green Co. dust palace had been evacuated to the other side of town as, for some bizarre reason, Catering Incorporated -- in desperate and sudden need of extra workers -- had resorted to cannibalizing able bodies from the operations of other SCHN Corp subsidiaries, which happened to make up the totality of the industrial sector surrounding the -- formerly SCHN corp -- primary dust palace.

To recap: the largest terrorist event in Atlas’s history happened without warning, and without a body count, and Schnee stock was soaring!

Because, just guess who had the only operational dust palace in Atlas; and consequently the only functioning works maintenance company?

Not Green. Co. I can tell you that.

* * *

Mr. S, after a long and busy day, finally sat down at the buffet table with a relaxed sigh.

Laid out before him was something out of a cartoon. A whole roast animal, baked vegetables, delicately assorted sandwiches and sandwichettes, green eggs and ham, and lots and lots of alcohol. The smell of it was intoxicating. The warm garden air was flooded with the savory oils and crisp fragrances of… his stomach rattled about like a dog straining at its leash. Still, he held himself back for the customary five minutes. You know, for the canaries to start dropping. And, he didn’t even feel particularly bad about that bit of pragmatism, most of his emotions then being overtaken by the decidedly cavernous hunger that was not eating its way through him.

On minute three and a half, he decided he’d just risk it at this point, and stabbed an oversized mini bar onto his fork, and raised his arm up-

A hand stopped him.

It was Schwarz’s hand, pressed firmly onto the shoulder of his suit, and consequently onto the shoulder of Mr. Schnee, who’s body Mr. S was currently starving in.

Mr. S did not look kindly on the interruption.

“Yes?” he asked, looking up at Schwarz with bloodshot eyes.

“You have visitors,” Schwarz said with a grave expression.

“It can wait,” Mr. S began to turn back to his meal, and he felt the grip on his shoulder harden. Again, he looked up at Schwarz and saw a similar hardness in her expression.

“It’s serious,” she said.

Mr. S could see that she was earnest, and he felt terrible at how much he didn’t care. Though, again, not that terrible in the grander sense, his emotions being eaten up by hunger and all that.

“I believe you,” he said, putting a hand on hers and looking kindly into her eyes. And then went back to moving his fork to his mouth.

“Please,” Schwarz said. That... had managed to overwhelm him… enough to stop his fork in mid bite, anyway. “I…” she held herself back from speaking more.

“What is it?”

“I know people have always been given to suspicion around you, and I know that because… . I just want you to know that I’ll always be on your side.”

“Thank you, Schwarz.”

“But, I also need you to trust me, now.” Schwarz said. “I think you should go.”

Mr. S paused a moment in consideration, and then slammed his hands on the table, causing a shake and a rattle of several of the plates, and startling his neighbors. “Damn it!”

He stood with a huff, grabbing a glass fruit-bowl as he did so.

“Uh, sir, I don’t think-”

“The fruit-bowl stays!”

And Schwarz, seeing the supernatural adamance he’d gathered for the prospect, didn’t fight it. So she led him along the hallways to the main lobby. Mr. S, following behind, picked at the nicest grapes from the fruit bowl, thinking carefully about which order to eat them in. What he wasn’t thinking about, however, was the recent news. He might be forgiven for this, because he hadn’t heard it yet, but you, our dear reader, know now all of the pertinent details of the recent attack, and might be able to draw some fresh insights from it. So, let us look back at the various events of the night, and try to examine them with impartial eyes.

Imagine, for instance, that you knew of a billionaire. And, imagine, that this billionaire was a generally unpopular person with civil rights activists and was facing several allegations of work place endangerment and was, generally, seen as a bad guy.

Now, imagine, if you will, that this billionaire's daughter announces a relationship with the ex-girlfriend of the notorious White Fang. And then that billionaire proceeded to promote the girl up to being the head of his Faunus Outreach Committee.

And then imagine that that girl's ex-boyfriend, Adam Taurus, makes a historic infiltration of the Schnee Manor, sits alone with the billionaire for several minutes, and then, except for some property damage, leaves without doing the billionaire any harm.

And, now, for the piece-de-resistance, imagine if you will, and, this is entirely hypothetical, mind, that, just several days after this, Adam Taurus conducts the largest terrorist event in Atlas history, as described above; managing in the attack to only help the aforementioned billionaire.

There were two primary conclusions one could draw from the above listed facts:

One: Mister Schnee was colluding with terrorist groups.

Or, this was all just a massive coincidence.

These, as you may be able to tell, are not the most diverse set of options.

And, they may have gone some way towards explaining why, when Mr. S ordered the main gates opened, Councilwoman Camilla stood fore and front, the entirety of Mantel’s police leadership on display behind her.

This, Mr. S realized, was perhaps not the best moment to be cradling a fruit bowl.

“Congresswoman Camilla!” Mr. S greeted with a subdued smile. “It’s been too long.”

“Not for my taste, Jaques” Camilla sterned, and stepped confidently into the castle. “Do you know why we’re here?” she asked, as if the question were only of passing interest to her.

“No.” Mr. S said.

Even he wasn’t falling for that one.

Camilla was unperturbed and unsurprised, and answered with startling directness: “We are here because you are under suspicion of consorting with terrorists to destroy the Primary Schnee Palace.”

That, for the moment, had managed to make him forget about the fruit bowl.

“Why would I destroy my own palace?” Mr. S asked, genuinely confused.

Of course, under certain conditions, genuine confusion could also sound a lot like an arrogant refusal to acknowledge certain facts.

“You know it is no longer your palace,” Camilla cut.

“Then why is my name on it?” Mr. S asked, again sounding either confused, or taunting.

Camilla twitched, “I have neither the time nor the desire to play these games with you, Jaques. You are under investigation for the destruction of the Primary Dust Store which, as of the transfer, has been under the leasage and care of the Greens. Do you understand your situation?”

“I do. Though, I’m terribly confused as to how I’ve come to be in it.”

Camilla only scoffed.

“Really,” Mr. S said, earnestly, “I really have no knowledge of, or connection to, this attack. And I’m willing to provide you with all the evidence you might require to resolve this.”

Camilla, despite all her knowledge and experience, was caught by the honesty that marveled his tone.

“You’re willing to cooperate with us?” she asked, eyebrow raised.

“To any reasonable degree,” Mr. S said, confident. “What do you need?”

“Nothing unreasonable,” Camilla said. “If you’re really willing to cooperate, we’d like access to the castle’s security system.”

“What for?”

“To look through the camera system files. We understand you’ve already made some of them available to the police department following the… attack by Adam,” she said, hesitating on the last descriptor. “But, they are incomplete. We’d like something that covers a longer stretch of time.”

“I suppose that could be done, for the public sections of the castle, anyway.”

Mr. S agreed, either not noticing or not heeding Schwarz who, out of sight of the rest of the coed, frantically shook her head in warning.

“Perfect,” Camilla smiled, and gestured for a policewoman to come forward. In the woman’s arms was a block computer system, with glowing figures and shadowy styles running over it’s body like runes. “If you will just give us the relevant access-”

Mr. S, eager to prove his innocence, preempted her by pulling out his scroll -- connecting to the computer block and swiping his fingerprint to allow it access to the public security files.

Camilla moved forward with unhesitating precision. “Run a query through the expert system,” she demanded. “Have it search for anything relating to the Greens and destruction.”

The policewoman was quick to comply, though slower to deliver, as she programmed in the relevant search terms as well as accompanying network states.

In the brief interlude, Mr. S decided, for once, to talk his way out of a hole.

“Really, I can assure you this is all some massive misunderstanding. I’ve never in my life held anything but the deepest respect for Green.”

“There is nothing in this world I respect less than that bastard, Green!” Mr. Schnee’s voice came clear and loud through the projection that now hovered over the screen.

Oh no, Mr. S thought. Oh shit.

For, Mr. S suddenly remembered that, whereas he’d spent four days in this body, Mister Schnee had probably spent the past several decades stacking up opinions on his behalf. And, would you look at that, here came another one!

“I am going to destroy Green… financially!” another clip came up, this time of Mister Schnee ranting to a video conference full of teleprompters.

The clips were many and varied as they came up, and up, and up, and up, and just never seemed to stop. By the fifth minute, it had frankly grown to be embarrassing. By the eighth minute, he really started to suspect himself. By the tenth… well, he was just surprised there wasn’t a clip of him saying he was planning on consorting with terrorists to blow up the primary palace.

Still, he hadn’t said anything completely incriminating yet. And, looking at the date marker in the corner of the holographic videos, he could see the date of his arrival was coming up, and -- seeing the end of the long train that was Mister Schnee’s outbursts -- began to muster the effort, and cultivate his hopes.

… he needn’t have bothered.

For, after the date of his arrival, he’d only made one remark that triggered the search.

Remember it?

Because, Mr. S certainly did, as it popped up onto the screen.

* * *

"Actually, father. If I may interject," Winter interrupted, "you should consider the severely negative impact this could have on the company," she said, keeping her voice even.

'Ahh, shit. I've still gotta stay in character,' Mr. S thought as he remembered that he still had a part to play, even if he didn't know what that part was supposed to be…

"Well, obviously, I won't be risking much," Mr. S replied.

"What do you mean?" Weiss asked, hunched over with a sneer.

"Huhhhhhhhhhhhhh." Mr S sighed a deep and solemn sigh, making very clear the depths of his disappointment at being surrounded by feeble-minded plebs who couldn't see the obvious. Drawing his sigh out for as long as he could, he frantically thought of reasons why he was right.

"What?" Weiss asked impatiently.

"Schwarz, how are stocks?" He asked with an overconfident tone, not bothering to face his secretary as he spoke.

Schwarz turned to look out the glass wall, glancing at the giant screen on the factory wall, taking in the green line as it snaked its way along a graph, before looking back at Mr. S. "Uhh...they're stable, sir."

"See?" He said as if that proved everything. "We sell dust, people," he continued as if he knew exactly what that entailed besides a vague Saudi Arabia corollary he'd made in his mind. "We could start funding terrorist groups and even then I'm sure people would hesitate to go green."

* * *

“Hold it! Go back to that last part,” Camilla ordered.

The deputy, without even needing to ask ‘which part’, so obvious was it, complied.

"See?" the video began again. "We sell dust people! We could start funding terrorist groups and even then I'm sure people would hesitate to go green."

“Play that again.”

"See? We sell dust people! We could start funding terrorist groups and even then I'm sure people would hesitate to go green."

Everyone, Mr. S noticed, was now looking at him.

“Is that you in the video?” Camilla asked.

“...yes,” Mr. S answered.

“And, you remember saying that?” Camilla questioned further, almost in confusion.

“Yes.”

“And, you knew that what you’d said was on the security cameras?”

“Yes,” Mr. S said, not quite telling the truth because, when he’d searched for the term “Green” in his memory, he really hadn’t bothered to also remember the times he’d said it to mean “environmentally friendly.”

“And, yet, you still agreed to allow us to conduct this search?”

“Yes.”

“Can, you explain exactly why you chose that particular wording, at that particular moment, just days before this attack?”

It was a Saudi Arabia refrence! Came briefly to mind and then was discarded.

So Mr. S searched his mind desperately and frantically, and said:

“I can’t,” suddenly affecting an upper-crust English accent.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

* * *

Back in Mantel, in one of the few White Fang headquarters yet to be raided by the police, many panicking Faunus were streaming through the interior, gathering all manner of important paperwork necessary to the Fang, as well as to their quick exit from the suddenly hostile city.

Inside Adam’s office, the people there were panicking as well, though for a rather different reason.

“Oh, this isn’t good. This is n-not good. Not good at all!” Neo shivered out, rubbing her arms as she hunched forward in the small office, talking to Roman in a scared, squeaky voice. “Salem’s not going to be happy about this at all, Roman! She’s been acting weird lately, and I don’t think she’s going to be glad if we fail her again.” All through her tirade, Neo kept her eyes fixed on the faded paneling of the wood floor in front of her. Although, Roman wasn’t looking at her either, fixated on the mounds of filing paper he was hurriedly stuffing into his briefcase.

“The time sheets, where are the time sheets.” Roman said with a distant voice. He threw another filing cabinet’s worth of papers into the case.

“You’re not listening to me, Roman! We’ve gotta get out of here! Remember what happened to Ember! If Salem finds us like this, she’s going to rip our digestive system out through our respiratory system!”

“Look!” Roman suddenly turned to Neo, grasping her by the arms and shaking her into the present. “Nobody’s digestive system is getting ripped out!” He turned hurriedly back to the desk where his briefcase lay. “We’ve just got to find Adam’s statements and try to find Raven from those! Now, where did he say the time sheets were!”

“He didn’t!” Neo yelled. “Adam’s dead, Torchwick! He died back in Fraza! He- he didn’t tell me jack! He didn’t even reserve a plane for me to get back here. I had to steal a horse!”

“What? He betrayed us? I almost can’t believe it!” Roman said with parodical surprise, before angrily crumpling another stack of files and throwing them into the case. As he did so, however, he suddenly found his mood turning when, under an empty stack, he found a red-manilla folder with a gold sticker plastered onto it that said, “Raven!”

“W-What is it?”

Torchwick lifted the folder up into the light, flipping through it, all the while his smile growing larger across his face. “Save your condolences, Neo, because I think we’ve just found what we were looking for.”

* * *

Sharing a horse with another passenger was uncomfortable on the best of days, doing so with another passenger and a dead body, however, was not much better.

Still, as they walked out of the mortuary, Melva couldn’t understand the sudden depression that had come over McGarnagle.

“Circumstantial evidence,” McGarnagle said, shaking away the rather substantial levels of snow that had built up upon his shoulders.

“What! Did you even hear what I said! He had the entire Atlas fleet parked over his dust palace hours before we even suspected Adam might be trying something! I’m telling you, he knew what Adam was up to! This is an open and shut case!”

“And this won’t be the first one he’s gotten himself out of,” McGarnagle said, turning back to resettle his horse. “He can afford good lawyers, and, unless they can find something better, he won’t be spending a single second in prison.”

“Dude, he literally evacuated the entire district around the green palace for a catering event! What more could you need!” Melva was transfixed to her scroll screen, as well as the constant, insider updates that progressed onto it from one of her friends on the investigation team. Meva suddenly laughed. ‘He even let them access the security videos! The madman!” She, again, burst out laughing, even harder this time, “and you won’t believe what they caught him saying!”

“Circumstantial evidence,” McGarnagle chided once again, setting back down onto the horse and pressing his feet in the reins.

“What!” Melva yelled, a great offence growing in her voice! “How much less circumstantial could it get! This would put anyone away forever. I thought you’d actually be happy for once, you miserable fuck!”

“Look, I’ve been hunting him for longer than anyone else!” McGarnagle reared, letting loose his sense of frustration. “I know he did it! It’s obvious he did it! Any fool on earth could deduce he did it! And I also know he won’t be going to jail unless they find direct evidence.”

Melva moved to voice her rebuttal, but McGarnagle wouldn’t ease down.

“Trust me, my hopes are tempered by experience. You’ve no idea how many times I’ve been this close to putting him away, only to be hampered by national security interests or other secrecy compaques or simply by ‘proper procedure!’ Do you have any idea how many times I’ve been denied the opportunity to interrogate him! Do you have any clue what a ridiculous farce the justice system turns into when it comes face to face with him!" he stuttered to a quiet pause, and turned his horse away from her, growing quiet. "I do," he whispered. "I’ve been through this moment more times than you can imagine, Melvanova. And I know he won’t be going in.”

Melva, noticing his stance, and the tight grip that had formed on the reins, looked worriedly over at McGarnagle.

“McGarnagle,” she said, a creeping worry apparent in her voice, “what are you planning?”

“I’m not going to stand by anymore, Melva,” he turned his horse further, facing the glimmering city as it hung over the southern horizon.

“McGarnagle,” Melva said again, with placative tones, “the investigation team is still in the castle."

“Yes," he acknowledged, "and I’m going to make sure they get what they’re looking for.” His horse’s hooves crunched through deepening snow, sending flurries up into the air as he started trotting away.

“We don’t have a warrant, McGarnagle!” Melva implored, jogging over to keep pace beside him.

“I’m not going to ask for warrants anymore, Melva. I’ve grown tired of protecting criminals all my life.”

“Oh, gods, what are you saying!” Her voice was obscured now behind the rising winds of speed as the horse picked up pace, and Melva alongside it.

“I’m going to get the evidence, Melva.”

“But you said yourself he’s been doing this for years, what if you don’t find it!?”

“Then I’m going to walk up to him, while he’s still in front of the honorable council-woman, and I’m going to ask him whether he colluded with Adam. I’ll pull up my shadow, and he’ll tell the truth.”

“McGarnagle, that’s extremely illegal!” Melva was full on yelling, not struggling to be heard past the blasting storm surges that slammed into their forms. “You’re going to go to jail!”

“A confession is still a confession, when done in front of valid witnesses. I’ll go to prison gladly, but I’ll be taking him with me.”

“McGarnagle!” Melva was struggling to keep pace now, as he hit the flat tundra past the city terrain, and she wondered if he’d even heard her as he pulled quickly away, a crack of scattered moisture exploding around his form as the horse sprinted forward.

Still, in the face of the wind, as she slowed to a stop, Melva thought she heard him bid: “Goodbye, Melva.”

* * *

The horse shivered and shook its head as McGarnagle guided it into the port; it’s mane was slicked back, and heavy curls of steam rose off of it’s form as he handed it to the unimpressed stable attendant.

McGarnagle had little trouble navigating the tether up to Atlas, and even less trouble strolling into the walls of the Schnee manor, the sudden police camp that had built up around the entrance welcoming him like a brother, although he knew that to no longer be the case.

He paused a moment outside of the manor entrance, the warm light of the interior falling brilliantly out into the cold Atlas night, reflecting in the snow beneath him. McGarnagle looked down at his badge, which was so worn that it refused to glimmer even in the direct fluorescence that illuminated it. With a heavy heart, he let it fall from his grip, and watched as it disappeared into the snow fall below; and he stepped into the castle.

* * *

For the forgetful reader, let us recount that, throughout the recent events which befell him, Mr. S was still dressed in the heavy cardinal’s robes he’d donned for the wedding ceremony, having been too impatient to remove them before settling down for the meal.

After the revelation of the video footage -- at the insistence of councilwoman Camilla -- they’d all taken a short walk into the interior of the castle, stopping at an overhanging, glass walkway with a clear view of the security hall below, which was lined with metal doors that led to various record rooms.

Likely, the councilwoman hoped to preempt any hidden tampering with the evidence.

Mr. S wasn’t thinking about that, however, as he looked down with sharp vertigo at the glass floor of the walkway beneath him, as well as the tiled floor of the hallway beneath that. Rather, he was currently enamored with his Cardinal’s robe. It was a brilliantly colored artifact, with rich purples and resplendent gold silks folding over and obscuring his form; a hundred crimson tassels bowed themselves over his waist and lower body.

This was, perhaps, not the most appropriate costume to be wearing during a criminal investigation. But Mr. S wasn’t thinking about that. He was thinking, instead, about cliches.

You know, the thought came suddenly to him, cliches were great. They had… a power and elegance that most people weren’t in a position to appreciate, having heard them far after their best-by date, and often from the mouths of idiots. But,Mr. S wasn’t one to hold that against them, and he could see their merits, whatever they were; because, most cliches, by nature, were great; there was a reason people kept repeating them!

“Sic semper Romanus?” epic.

“Only fools rush in where angel’s fear to tread?” Genius.

There were just so many of them! And, in his more casual musings, it hadn’t escaped Mr. S how he couldn’t fail to sound like a genius if he used them in the presence of extraterrestrials who’d never had the opportunity to grow bored of them.

And Mr. S also hated Shakespeare. He never really saw the point of struggling so much to understand old stories he had no hope of ever applying it in his real life, and the literary value was tarnished by the fact that he could only understand half the words! If you're going to force children to read something they can't understand, why not make it something with useful information, like a first aid kit!

He’d even said as much to his drama teacher that time he’d been forced to take drama.

Still, despite his opinion, Mr. S -- as the one who’d been assigned the lead role -- memorized everything about Hamlet, and spent weeks practicing his acting form. This, despite the fact that it was a mandatory high-school class that everyone had to take and that no one cared about. And, Mr. S, over the course of his practice and his study... actually started getting into it! Finally, he was developing some appreciation for the art! Besides which, he had to admit -- he kind of liked it! He liked Hamlet! And Shakespeare wasn't so bad, either!

But, when the time to perform came, and he arrived backstage with his costume and gaily smile, the drama teacher replaced him with an understudy, and Mr. S walked away that night hating Shakespeare.

However -- now, for some reason, Mr. S felt a deep and grave anger at that particular injustice, even more so than what he’d felt at the time. How could they replace him with an understudy! He was obviously the most capable!

Granted, this was perhaps not the best use of his mental efforts, considering he was under investigation; but, for some reason, Mr. S couldn’t muster enough effort to care. Or, rather, to try, anyway. There was this oppressive, shadowy feeling that seemed to monopolize his thoughts and which prevented him from gathering anything other than the most harmless efforts in his favor. Because, at this point, he'd honestly have preferred to just go to jail than sit under the burden of anticipation -- of the impossibly numerous, and impossibly dire… everything that hounded him.

The terrorist groups, the thought flashed suddenly into his mind: the White Fang, yes. They were a threat to the world, according to Mr. Schnee, or maybe they were just a front for a greater threat. He had trouble remembering, but, before he could attempt to gather his thoughts on the matter, they bucked over to a completely new topic -- as if with a will of their own. The Stock! The urgency of this latest voice was equally voluminous, and it felt equally dire; he remembered that he wouldn’t be able to do anything if he was fired in six months -- a sudden memory of his estranged wife overlapped this cause of worry, not before his mind already turned to the next one, however -- because, of course, he was also starving! Even though he’d lost his appetite, he was terribly starving -- shivering with discomfort. And he couldn’t go out to eat because Adam was out there, looking to kill him. And, he was starving in the first place because there was a traitor indoors, and he’d been starving for four days, and his family was uncooperative, and his heir was disowned, and… and, there was something else, wasn’t there?

“Mr. Schnee,” Camilla’s voice interrupted his thoughts, “we will need an official statement as to how you plead.”

There it was! He was going to jail.

Mr. S, when he processed the statement, felt something inside of him… fall askew. It wasn’t a bad feeling that overcame him, quite to the contrary, in fact. It was... freeing. His eyes twitched epileptically as the pointless grapes sat like acidic rocks in his stomach, and his days worth of sleep deprivation and food deprivation suddenly set a strobe effect running on his eyelids as he turned stiffly away from Camilla and her deputy.

And, as he turned away, he saw, suddenly, and completely randomly, a shadowy man in a trench-coat stalking along the opposing hallway.

He couldn't even muster the sanity to question it at this point.

“Hehehehe!” he started chuckling, as he looked down the empty stretch of walkway ahead of him.

“Excuse me?” Camilla asked.

And, for some reason, that only made everything funnier!

**“Ahahahahahahahahahaha!”** Mr. S started laughing, feeling genuinely joyous for the first time in a long time; burning mirth rose up in his gut, mixing potently with the settling hunger. **“Ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaahahahahahahahahahaha!”** His voice strained on itself like he was doing a Jack Nicholson impression, and he suddenly whirled about, gripping a golden handrail as he doubled over, laughing like a madman; his eyes closed shut it was hurting so much.

“Mr. Schnee, grab a hold of yourself!” Camilla demanded, aghast.

“Ahhhhhhhahahahahahahaha!” Mr. S knew it only made him seem more guilty, and he didn’t care! He preferred it, in fact! For some perverse reason, Mr. S suddenly felt an unrequited urge to have everything make sense, even if needed to lie to do so.

He coughed and straightened as he rode out the trailing end of his laugh.

“You -- hahahahaha,” the laugh broke from him, inspiring him to recall himself, “ -- you wanted a statement, right? Ahahaha,” his chuckles gasped from him in dying wheezes.

“Yes,” Camilla said, unperturbed except for the worried look that came over her eyes.

“Ok, fine, I’ll tell you,” he spat “I didn’t host that wedding because I _cared_ so much about the couple,” he admitted. “I didn't care at all! The entire wedding was a front for a plan I had, to satisfy my own, selfish, ulterior motives. Would you like to know them?”

“Do not take that down!” Camilla suddenly barked at her lieutenants, before earnestly turning back to Mr. S. “Mr. Schnee, I only ask and I only expect a guilty or not guilty plea. I can assure you, you’ll have plenty of opportunities to explain yourself before a court, but I will not be tainting this investigation with extraneous statements made while you’re so obviously… under duress.”

“Oh, no,” Mr. S easily supplied, “please, I’m… I’m not under any duress. In fact, I’ve never felt better! And, really, I must get this off my chest and tell you that, yes, indeed, I--”

And -- as Mr. S would later note -- perhaps there was something watching over him, because, suddenly, at that moment, his mind commandeered his attention again, turning it to the shadowy man below.

“Actually," Mr. S interrupted himself without sense, "I have to ask, why have you sent that man?” Mr. S pointed down at the man that none of them were supposed to pay attention to, the same man who -- now that he’d reached the lower hallway -- was struggling to enter one of the file rooms.

* * *

McGarnagle was not unaware of the sudden attention that had been drawn to him.

And, although he hardly had a notion of self, much less of those around him, he still felt the burning desire to draw up his semblance yet higher.

The shadows around his body grew starker; crisp, like pressed razor blades against his body.

Beyond him, space departed in the face of the subtle deception that now overtook it. McGarnagle’s aura cast itself outward, and every aura in the vicinity readily resonated. And every soul, in its turn, cowed to the demand.

Every soul, that was, except one.

From his special perspective, the detective froze suddenly, looking directly up at the steel blue pair of eyes that glared distinctly down at him. And, he sensed something in those eyes that he’d never seen before: recognition; yes, that was it. The man recognized him!

And, that man, standing imperiously over him on that glass walkway, bedecked in the resplendent light of his holy robes, did not hesitate for an instant before he called him:

“McGarnagle!” Mr. S said, unabashed as he spoke over the rail.

* * *

Camilla looked over to her deputy with a curious expression as Mr. S -- ignoring them completely -- started talking familiarly with the man on the lower floor.

“Mr. Schnee,” Camilla spoke cautiously, keeping a controlled grip over her voice, “ I’m curious: who are you talking to?”

“I’m curious myself,” Mr. S scowled down at the hallway, “why is Officer McGarnagle attempting to breach the doors of my file rooms?” His sudden curiosity over the matter returned to him some of his faculties, as he found something material to focus his attention on.

A rustle of disturbance ran through the crowd as he said that name.

“What are you talking about?” Camilla made clear the short end of her patience. “Mr. Schnee, we are here to investigate you formally under the authority of the Atlas council. We have come alone, and announced; this is a great courtesy to you. I strongly suggest you not squander it acting madly, as you are.”

“Then why have you sent McGarnagle to sneak through my hallways?” Mr. S said calmly, looking stately down at the man, who, despite increasingly frantic attempts to break into the nearest file room, now seemed completely aware of himself.

Again, excited murmurs rang through the gathered crowd, silenced abruptly as Camilla raised her hand in gesture.

“That is certainly a monstrous accusation, Mr. Schnee,” she spoke, voice pressed like cold steel. “And I’m certainly willing to overlook it, if you’ll stop this madness and help us carry on with this investigation. Although, I warn you, my patience is running short.”

“What are you talking about?” Mr. S looked over at her surely. “This isn't not an ‘accusation’; he’s right there!” he said, pointing to the trustworthy man on the lower level.

A full voiced chatter and hum of admonishment ran through the chorus of police behind her, and Camilla, mind keen as ever, couldn’t help noticing Mr. Schnee's earnest expression.

Had he truly gone mad?

Schwarz, with a patently embarrassed expression, came over to his side, supporting him worriedly by an arm. “Uh, that’s… not McGarnagle, sir. He’s with us.”

“That is McGarnagle,” Mr. S insisted, looking surely over at the man. “The shadows are obscuring him, but I’d recognize him anywhere.”

Schwarz only looked more sheepish. “Sir, that’s really not him. He’s worked here for years. He’s one of the only people allowed to access the file room.”

“What’s wrong with you, Schwarz? No one other than us is allowed to-”

“Enough!” Camilla said. “I tire of your stalling! Will you present us with a statement, or do I need to take you into-”

And suddenly, Mr. S, riding the insensibility of his depression, chucked the half-empty fruit bowl he’d been carrying at the man. The figure dodged, and the bowl shattered, screaming it’s crystalline cries as it streamed into a wash of water and glass.

“Are you mad!” Camilla began to yell, abruptly silencing herself when the figure dropped his shadow, and McGarnagle revealed himself.

Camilla, beyond the shock of the revelation, was overtaken by horror. The feeling of her heart falling out from under her was cavernous, and the immeasurable expression on her face was plain, as she saw the errant detective leap back to steady himself from his sudden dodge.

She sputtered, tripping over her words as she, in the same breath she’d gathered to deny Mr. S’s accusations, called out: “McGarnagle!”

Schwarz, on the other hand, suddenly peaked with a hopeful expression, and turned an understanding look onto Mr. S.

Mr. S, at first ignorant of the implications, felt a realization bubbling up when he noticed the look Schwarz was sending onto him.

Wait a minute.

“A moment of your time,” Mr. S smiled confidently over at the councilwoman, interrupting her building tirade against the detective.

Camilla turned haphazardly to look at Mr. S, gripping onto the rail with both hands. “Yes?” she answered, breathless.

“Forgive me if my memory is faulty, but I do recall you saying that: ‘Monstrous accusation’ would not be unfitting to describe this situation we’ve found ourselves in.”

With a gesture, he drew McGarnagle to her attention.

Camilla smiled suddenly, friendly. “You must understand, Mister Schnee. This is… not at all… we, do not condone this.” She finished her sentence off lamely, trailing guiltily off into an undramatic silence.

For Mr. S, that was all he needed to know he was home free.

Because, as far as his best intuition could tell, Camilla was now drawing from the same set that every politician who’d been caught doing something illegal had. Namely, she was out of options.

And, that small spark of hope Schwarz’s look had kindled in him suddenly erupted into rapturous joy.

Of course, few words -- even rapturous joy-- could hardly be considered sufficient to describe the explosive sensation that was bursting within him. In his mind, all he could gather was that he was so happy it hurt; it felt like a golden flame was burning it’s way through him!

Have you ever pushed necessary work off until the last minute? Have you ever stayed up all night working tirelessly at it, and felt the dread eating you up as you saw the seconds ticking by and knowing that you wouldn’t be able to finish on time? And have you ever, when in the midst of your most hopeless moment, suddenly realized that you misread the due date and that it, in fact, wouldn’t be due until next week?

Have you ever genuinely thought you were going to jail, only for an almost divinely inspired Get Out Of Jail Free card to drop onto your lap like you were cheating at real life monopoly?

That last analogy many be more representative of what was going through Mr. S when he started laughing.

“Hahahahahahahahahaha!” This laugh was unlike his last. Whereas previously it had been characterized by wild, desperate, and uncontrolled howling; now he was experiencing something much more refined. Instead of hunching over, he now stood up straight, bearing his breast out and throwing his head back as light, crisp chuckle escaped from between his exposed and glimmering canines. His voice was resonant in the suddenly silent hallway, exuding the egotistical confidence of men who knew no one would dare to interrupt them, who were secure in the knowledge that they had no one to wait on.

He paused in his laughter for a short second, taking a breath before he started up on another round.

“Hahahahahahahahahahahaha!”

In truth, it took all of his will power to keep his reaction so subdued. For, in the immediate aftermath of this revelation, his initial instinct had been to dance around like a fool and say: “Awwwwwwwwwww! Shiiiiiiiiiiit! Yes! Oh, fuck! Yeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaahhhhhsssssssssss!”

He wanted to go up to Congresswoman Camilla and say: “Fuuuuuuck you, bitch! You thought you could put me in jail! I’m not going to jail! You're going to jail!” right in her face. He felt like punching somebody! He was on top of the world! He wanted to sing It’s A Wonderful Life! He wanted to donate a million dollars to charity! He was epic! He was the shit! He _wasn’t_ going to jail! And he couldn’t think to ask for anything more! He was on pure adrenaline, and felt like his adrenaline was on cocaine, and that the cocaine was on meth!

Mr. S wasn't one to rate anything too highly, but this...this was the greatest feeling imaginable!

With remarkable willpower, Mr. S kept those thoughts and complutions hidden inside of himself, expressing only a laugh and, to the keen eyed, a shivering shake of his body underneath his cardinal’s robes.

“Hahahahahahahahahaha!” His laughter was steady and unbroken, not rising or falling off from the sinister volume he’d chosen earlier.

And, as he laughed, Mr. S felt himself becoming hyper-aware of his formal dress -- having long ago forgotten it in his earlier state of mind. And, in accordance with his sudden knowledge, he paced off to the side, dramatically swooshing the extra length of robe behind him as he -- still chuckling -- posed over the handrail with a regal expression, looking distinctly over at McGarnagle. His hands, carefully placed at the small of his back, were positioned with maximum confidence.

“Guards!” Mr. S raised one hand in a short wave, “take McGarnagle away!”

At his word, two of the suits of armor lining the lower hallway came to life, and began shuffling over to McGarnagle to escort him.

“What!” McGarnagle said, aghast! “This isn’t possible!” he shouted suddenly up at Mr. S.

And, Mr. S, for whatever reason, recalled how he’d been insulted by his drama teacher. He’d learned all those pointless, Shakespearean plots. He’d memorized all those flowery sonnets, and he never even got the chance to show them off!

“Jaques!” McGarnagle’s voice yelled from below. “What did you do! What have you done!”

And, having recalled his lost opportunity, Mr. S suddenly realized the captive audience he’d just been granted with. And… considering everything, he was suddenly struck by an indulgent mood.

“Stop!” Mr. S suddenly ordered, freezing the robotic knights just in front of the detective, and framing his figure with their metal bodies.

This act took everyone by a surprise, not least of all McGarnagle who, upon noticing the act, took the opportunity to ask: "You saw me!" he said, aghast and terrified. "You knew! You knew it was me!"

Mr. S, still riding that explosive giddiness it hurt him to contain, yelled back with equal energy:

"I've always known, fool! I've always seen!"

“That’s impossible! Nothing on Remnant can-!”

“Oh,” Mr. S laughed; despite his suddenly soft proclamation, had little trouble silencing the man. He chuckled a long, delicious laugh, relishing the ignorant moments before he spoke the fatal words:

“There are more things in heaven and earth, McGarnagle, then are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

"You can see me!" McGarnagle repeated as if he hadn't heard him, struggling to wrap his mind around the concept.

"You can see him!" Camilla turned her head back to look at Mr. S; she spoke the words as if admonishing him for having broken some rule in her game.

"Oh, I've seen things you people wouldn't believe." Mr. S spoke with subdued angst, barely managing to subdue his maniac cackles.

"What are you talking about!" Camilla spoke, growing angry.

Mr. S shook his head, realizing the sudden lack of sense he was making. It was fun and all, using old quotes, but he still needed to ensure he was out of jail before he started playing around. He couldn't afford to stir up unnecessary suspicion, after all. So, putting on a serious face, he turned to Camilla with a business-like expression.

"I'm talking about my investigation," he said, pushing the old matters to the side with a wave of a hand. "Rather, I'm talking about it's sudden conclusion."

"What are you saying?" Camilla said, hackles raised and a dangerous bite to her voice.

"How disastrous would it be if the public learned that you allow your officers to break into private files without warrant?"

"McGarnagle is a rouge agent. We haven't ever-"

"But people couldn't be sure, could they?" Mr. S noted with passing interest. "Certainty, they wouldn't have any reason to believe you, considering they have nothing, even their memories, to verify your honor. Again, I'll ask, how disastrous would it be? More, or less, than a destroyed dust palace?"

Camilla was almost bearing her teeth. "You knew, didn't you? You knew this would happen!"

"If it helps you sleep at night, I'll admit right now that I actually didn't do it. Really, this is all a terrible misunderstanding," Mr. S bowed with casual politeness. "But, I really can't have you wasting my time chasing after spurious rumors of my supposed misdeeds."

"Supposed!" Camilla yelled, choking on her indignation. "We have megabytes of-"

"Of circumstantial evidence," Mr. S smiled. Off to the side, McGarnagle could be heard almost barking with rage, frothing at the mouth. "I, on the other hand, have direct evidence of your own policies as they're playing out."

"What-?"

"I will destroy green," Mr. S suddenly said boredly.

"NEW SEARCH TERM FOUND," the projector spoke, and displayed a video of their party. "I will destroy green," Mr. S's bored voice came through the speaker.

"What-?" Camilla began.

"I'll direct your attention to the security footage, as well as McGarnagle in the lower corner."

Camilla looked down with a determined scowl.

"I'll let you think about it a moment. What evidence do you actually have against me? Is it enough that you'd be willing to risk letting that out onto the air," he, again, gestured to the floating image.

Mr. S didn't hold back his superior smirk. At this point, he didn't care to hide it. He just had so much pent up energy, and he had to direct it somewhere! And, for good or ill, he'd decided to direct it into goading the councilwoman.

"You... you bastard!" Camilla yelled. "Do you have any idea how much your actions have cost us? Have cost the city!?"

Ah, impotent rage; it was here Mr. S knew he was home free. And he, in consideration of that, decided finally to make use of that happy juice tizzing through his veins.

"I haven't cost the city anything, congresswoman. As I assured you, this attack has nothing to do with me. I certaintly hope you'll be affirming that fact in tomorrow's press conference."

"You... you bastard!" Camilla yelled again, turning huffily away from him.

"Suspicion has a line, Camilla. There's no need for incivility." Mr. S, was now fully at the height of his smug, and waving his heavy sleeves like a clerical matador.

"Tell me," she suddenly turned, "how did you do it!"

"How did I do what?" Mr. S asked.

"How did you see him!" she gestured angrily down at McGarnagle.

"With my eyes," Mr. S smirked.

Schwarz appeared suddenly in front of Mr. S, halting Camilla's threatening steps forward.

"I... am the head councilwoman of the Atlas government. I am entitled to know, Mr. Schnee," she spoke, voice grating.

"Get used to disappointment."

That... brought a dangerous pause to their conversation.

"Be very careful, Mr. Schnee. History has shown you've depended far more upon my favor than I have yours." Camilla's voice was quenched in solidity, and, Mr. S knew very well how much trouble he was creating for himself, yet... he still couldn't help the ecstatic energy that flowed within him.

"You want answers?" he asked, with goading mirth.

Camilla went ballistic. "I want you to stop this ridiculous farc-"

"You want answers!?" Mr. S interrupted her, speaking with a rising energy that contained only a fraction of the laughing napalm that sat inside of him.

"I want the truth!" Camilla yelled.

And Mr. S, for the first time in the conversation, let loose all of his pent up energy, and allowed himself, finally, joyously, to yell back in response.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism Welcome.


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

* * *

“Eventful,” would have been an appropriate moniker for the events of that night.

Adam had died, McGarnagle was in custody, a terrorist attack had befallen Atlas, Mr. S had been accused -- and then immediately acquitted -- of abetting that attack, and then, after everything, the night was capped off by an event so monumental that it overshadowed completely all of those previous considerations.

Mr. S got to eat.

They’d almost started packing the food away when he rushed into the space, but he’d made it in time he consoled himself, belaying the order to clean up as he went off towards one of the tables. It surprised him how naturally the food came to be in his mouth. There was no great thought or special intention in his movements; he just ate, having long ago discarded any capacity for reverence.

“Mmmm, this _is_ a good burger,” Mr. S nodded through the mouthful of food he’d never stopped chewing.

And what a good burger it was, and what a good cucumber it was! What good food it was!

Slowly, he could feel his humanity returning to him as he took in the calories. His stomach filled with a comfortable sensation, and his heart started to beat properly as the blur of tunnel-vision induced arrhythmia cleared out of his head. He felt his breaths coming to him easier.

Schwarz, standing beside him, hardly noticed the departure from form.

“Uh, sir…” she began, hesitant to broach the topic.

“Yesh?” Mr. S didn’t look away from the line up as he stuffed another mouthful of food.

“Off the record, just between us, uh… did you know about the attack?” she asked, almost wincing at his answer.

“What?” Mr. S said, turning an expressive incredulity onto her, “no! Of course not,” he said.

And Schwarz believed him.

* * *

Many other people in Atlas, however, did not.

As promised, Camilla had made the announcement of his innocence the following morning on public radio.

“We have found no reason to believe SCHNEE CORP had any knowledge of, or connection to, the attack,” she said, while standing onto a podium so assaulted by camera flashes it was glowing, and looking all the time like she was reading off a hostage script.

And, still -- would you believe it?-- the people of Atlas did not believe.

So, it was perhaps of little surprise that, when the sun rose over Atlas that morning, Mr. S woke up and was greeted by the distant, though no less insistent for it, chanting of the angry mob outside.

“Down with Schnee! Down with Schnee!” They could be heard yelling over the garden walls, and through the speakers of the TV -- which flipped out from the hidden auspices of the bedroom’s south wall -- just above the cabinet mirror.

Mr. S, of course, had volunteered to donate money from his personal account into the rebuilding project. He’d even promised, on behalf of SCHNEE Corp, to finance the rebuilding commission under very low interest rates.

They should have been grateful!

Mr. S had much to learn about mob psychology, however.

For one, people are far less amenable to charitable donations when they perceive that the person donating it stole it from them in the first place. Really -- It’s almost worse than not donating, in a way. Because, it’s one thing to be stolen from; but it’s a vastly different thing to be stolen from and then have -- some -- of that money be returned while wrapped inside of a tax-deductible fig-leaf.

And, switching channels, there was another issue to deal with as well, because, while the city was refusing to investigate, the Board had taken it upon themselves to host a “private review” of his actions. He was told he’d have to attend it in a few days, once all of the relevant parties had been assembled.

Probably -- actually, no, definitely -- they were going to attempt to screw with him now that the stock was doing “great!”

And, looking at the stock, which had deflated from its night-time high, Mr. S noticed that it was now hovering just below the level he needed it to be in order not to be fired.

Of course, it was only barely below mark, and he had six months to get it together, but it was worrying for another reason. Because, from what he’d seen, the stock hadn’t gone down for any good reason. He still had a temporary monopoly of Atlas dust, after all.

Looking into the cause of the depression, Mr. S noticed the rather large stock movements that had been incurred by the board just before it dipped. Namely, he noticed that the board had loosed just-enough of their personal stock to depress the value just-enough to keep him in the metaphorical red.

“Schwarz?” he asked as he leaned over the edge of his bed, tying his shoe. "How much would the stock need to offset any of the board's from tampering?”

Sieben had taken his eclectically scheduled day off, and Schwarz was now designated as his replacement. Although, for customary reasons, she’d elected to stay outside until Mr. S had finished dressing. And now, that he was up to his shoes, Schwarz was standing off the foot of his bed, looking straight away at the south wall.

“Are you asking about a situation in which they’d sell all their stock?”

“Yes, imagine a worst case scenario,” Mr. S said fancifully.

“Um, I suppose -- in order to keep up with projections -- it would need to rise forty percent from it’s current post, sir,” Schwarz said, running the numbers.

Yeah, that wasn’t happening, Mr. S acknowledged.

“I’ve got my shoes on, now,” Mr. S said, standing up and allowing Schwarz to turn to face him with a relieved sigh.

“Oh, good, uh-”

“Down with Schnee! Down with Schnee!” A sudden spike in the outraged uproar on television came full-broadcase into their conversation.

This protest, Mr. S could see, was actually non-local. It was a gathered group of faunus picketing outside of his Vale headquarters. He could tell the city by the fragmented stonework and charred artillery shadows.

“Uh, yes, I was going to ask how you’d like for us to deal with the protests?” Schwarz said, cringing. “The people, particularly in Minstel, are... asking for a strategy. Things over there seem… hectic.”

Suddenly, the news channel switched over to another scene, in Minstel, where a shirtless woman waved a banner over her head as she stood atop the roof of a car that had crashed into the walls of a dust refinery.

The image took Mr. S by surprise, because he was sure that the dust refinery actually belonged to the Greens. The crowd, he guessed, mistook it for one of his. Popular discourse guessed that the crowd was made up of Schnee agents.

So, in all, this entire situation brought him to the brink of jail, didn’t help him at all with the stock situation, and now was forcing him to deal with world wide protests and public censure.

Mr. S, as he contemplated the overabundance of issues that were flooding over him, as he thought about the absolutely monstrous image of him that now prevaded the worldwide media, as he thought about the terrifying levels of control the board held over the stock, as he imagined the horrendously charged and dangerous situation that had developed around every building with a Schnee insignia on it, realized... that he felt pretty great!

Actually, forget great, he felt amazing! Because today was a new day! A gift of a new day, with fresh air, freely available, and cleanly delivered into his lungs; and he was about to have breakfast!

How? You may wonder, confused. How can he possibly deign to eat breakfast?

Well, rest your Machiavellian hearts, and remember that last night was not all tragedy. Despite everything, there had been one bit of good news: Adam was dead! And the leave restrictions was lifted! Mr. S could eat out! He could eat out! No one can poison fast food! It’s like a portable wedding!

This was the greatest day of his life!

* * *

This was the worst day of McGarnagle’s life!

Not only had he embarrassed himself infront of Mr. Schnee, but he was also-

“You’re fired, McGarnagle! You’re fired!” Chief vermillion shouted for the fifth time. “Turn in your badge, turn in your card, turn in your licence to kill, because you are fired!” He chewed angrily on the thick cigar that hung off of his lips, pacing back and forth before the entrance with blazing infernos for eyes. “Oh, I should have you arrested for this, McGarnagle! Arrested! Do you have any idea what you’ve cost this force with your antics, McGarnagle! Do you!”

McGarnagle sat quietly in the visitors chair, facing away from the pacing chief and staring ahead at the empty chair ahead of him. “Enlighten me,” he said, a bored tone taking his lips.

“Oh, you just don’t stop! I like you, McGarnagle, you’re the best damn son’of’a bitch detective I’ve ever seen! You’ve thwarted more crimes than Argamesh himself! But that doesn’t matter, now, McGarnagle! Because your carrier's dead! You’ve slit its throat from ear to ear! You’ve jeopardize everything I’ve done to get something like a cooperative relationship between this force and Atlas. Do you have any idea how much you’ve set us back? Do you have any care for how many-”

“I’m tired,” McGarnage breathed in with a slumping sigh.

“What!?”

“You talk a lot about rules… procedure. But I sometimes wonder how much that’s worth to you.”

“You’d better-!”

“I’m already fired, chief. Why not let me tell what’s been on my mind, all these years? Who know, it might actually help you to, someday, turn this simmering shithole around.”

Chief vermillion, starting to look a lot like his name sake, and on the verge of setting his cigar aflame, was not afforded the opportunity for rebuttal.

“You’re a good officer, Chief. I heard you did great things back when you were on the force, but you’re not great anymore, you’re cowardly. You talk great things about protecting the force, but you’re not protecting anything but it’s paycheck. You tell me about hard necessities, and purpose, but it seems you’ve never learned about the hard necessities of justice. I knew Schnee wouldn’t be getting off with anything but a light sentence, and I worked to stop it. I failed, and accept that I no longer have a place here, but don’t stand there waiting for an apology like I’m an untrained dog. It’s unlike you.”

“Oh...” Vermillion was shaking; having taken his cigar deftly in between his fingertips, clouds of ash were now flaking onto the floor from where the object -- an undefined remnant -- was crushed and burning into his smouldering grip, “you bastard!” he exploded, throwing the puffy remnant of his cigar. “You’re fired! You heard me, fired! Turn in your badge! You-”

“You’ve already said that,” McGarnagle, for the first time, revealed the clipped and senseless quality to his voice.

Vermillion was too busy seething to notice. “Ohh, just you wait, McGarnagle! Just you wait! You can forget about a good reference after this show! You’ll be lucky to get a job as a night guard in a spotlight factory after I’m through-”

“Excuse me!” A jolly voice interrupted!

Vermillion, not recognizing the tone and voice, turned to see, peeking beyond the office door he’d just propped open, the upper half of Mister Schnee.

“Is this Cheif Vermillion's office!?” he asked.

“Uh, of course, yes!” Vermillion cheered. “McGarnagle, please leave us,” he gestured with a hand, talking all polite like.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I only need a moment,” Mr. S said, walking into the room, holding in one hand a bouquet of flowers, and in the other hand a half-eaten box of chocolates. “Besides, I’d been hoping to find McGarnagle. He’s actually the one I’ve come to see.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” Mr. S said, and turned seriously to the sitting figure, who’d now turned slightly in place to face him. “I wanted to ask, you were the one who… subdued, Adam, correct?”

“Yes,” McGarnagle’s voice came, eminently hostile.

“Well, I just wanted to come and thank you personally,” Mr. S said, speaking with the most reverential of tones.

McGarnagle was silent, and unsurprised. Gloating was not a foreign character to Mister Schnee.

Humility, however, was.

“I also wanted to apologize.”

Chief vermillion, in the middle of lighting his second Cigar, paused -- staring, wide eyed, at the man as he held the flaming lighter inches away from his face. His eyes were now taken with a far more literal flame, as the fire light reflected off of his impossibly surprised pupils.

McGarnagle was silent.

“I know we hardly know each other. In fact, last night was probably our first real conversation, but, still, I was embarrassed that you might come away with a bad view of me because of it. And, while I don’t expect you to forgive me, I just wanted to come here and let you know how much respect I hold for the Atlas police force,” he nodded at Vermillion, “and for brave officers like you who keep our city safe. And, I, in particular, have actually benefited from your heroic actions.” Mr. S nearly welled up at this, thinking of the food mart he’d just been to. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself. “If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to come to me.”

Mr. S started to leave, when Vermillion called.

“Wait!”

Mr. S turned.

“Yes?”

Vermillion meant to ask, “was that a joke?” but soon recalled the instinct, instead, saying:

“Uh… McGarnagle was… right now we were just in the process of…”

“Oh, I certainly hope you weren’t planning on transferring him!” Mr. S said.

“Uh… no.”

“Good, we need men like him in this city. I expect to see great things from McGarnagle, chief, and great things from the police force! Have a nice day!”

And Mr. S left; and, like someone who’d cheated himself out of object permanence classes, chief Vermillion was left wondering if he’d ever been there in the first place. So shocked was he, that not once had he made a move to remove the lighter away from his face.

It was, eventually, McGarnagle that broke the silence when, just as quietly as always, and not looking away from the wall ahead, he asked:

“So, will I still need to turn in my badge?”

* * *

Several hours earlier, Mr. S was standing atop the landing fields which crisscrossed the high roof of the Schnee manor, in the process of commandeering a shuttle for a personal jaunt into the city.

In his hand, were the perfect list of operable restaurants for him to visit. He had it all figured out, today, he'd go to the food mart, and from then he'd follow a random pattern algorithm to choose his next mark. They'd never be able to guess which restaurant he'd go to!

He was also wearing darker clothes than normal, along with a blue, formal hat -- a small, though effective, attempt to not be noticed out in the city.

Because Adam was dead, and food was out there, and he couldn’t wait to get out of here!

Weiss, meanwhile -- also wearing dark clothes -- and with bags stuffed hurriedly under her arms, dragged her tired friends about like a line of school children as she ran out onto the rooftop looking for a personal shuttle -- because Adam was dead, and freedom was out there, and she couldn’t wait to get out of here.

Their arrivals coincide by several minutes, resulting in their cohabitation of the airfield when, at dock-dawn of the morning, the first and only shuttle came down for a gentle landing.

In the cockpit, union work seemed to find its mascot in the irreverent auspices of the lady within.

She sat alone in the pilot's chair, a co-pilot in the chair next to her, speaking easily out of the large, rolled down, window that faced them.

“Last shuttle to Atlas!” she droned in a plaintive, uncaring voice. “Last shuttle to Atlas!”

“What do you mean ‘last Shuttle?’” Weiss demanded, standing in line behind Schwarz and Mr. S, “it’s only morning!” There, she pointed at the sun in explanation.

“We had to work overtime last night to shuttle the guests in,” the lady explained. “Regs say we’ve got to put them in for inspection every four hundred miles, and I’m at 385.” She tapped the dashboard of the machine solidly.

“What!” Weiss yelled desperately. “Are you saying there isn’t going to be another shuttle out of here until tomorrow?”

“If you’re lucky,” the pilot said. “Mechanics say it might be up to a week, depending.”

Here Weiss, distastefully, turned a compromising look onto Mr. S who, without a care in the world, had taken the back seat of the shuttle, still visible through the wide doors which opened into it. “Can’t you go wherever you’re going on foot? Our flight is in 5 minutes.”

Weiss directed the question mainly at Schwarz, but it was Mr. S who answered, pointing a finger at the grassy knoll just beyond the main gate of the castle, where the surrounding two acres of parkland were overflowing with protesters.

“What do we want!” the lead yelled.

“Retribution!” the crowd yelled with discordant chaos!

“When are we leaving!?”

“Never!”

“Yeahhh, they’re gonna be there a while!” the pilot noted, gesturing to the varied camping equipment they carried among themselves.

“You can take the shuttle with us, though,” Mr. S offered.

“Where are you going?” Weiss asked.

“The consumer district.”

“What! The port is in Mantle! The nearest tether point there ends in tundra! We’ll never make it in time!”

“Yeah, and the guy who’s piloting that shuttle is a real stickler for time, too,” the lady drawled. “Kind of annoying, but he is the only guy we have that’s certified to fly the Vale path during grimm season. Too bad he’s taking a vacation tomorrow, though.”

“How long until he gets back!?” Weiss demanded.

“Eh, about a week. Give or take. If you’re in a hurry to get to Vale, you could connect through Mantle, of course, that-”

“The whole reason we’re going to Vale, is so we can connect to Mantle!”

The pilot mulled that bit of knowledge over, eventually nodding. “Yeah, that makes sense. They are having a war on the Atlas-Mantel path, after all.”

“Can’t you go to the airport!?” Weiss begged, looking mainly at Schwarz again.

“Hey, I’m only authorised to make one trip there, and one trip back, no detours.” the pilot called back.

“We only have security allowance for a two hour trip.” Schwarz was adamant.

Weiss was about to scream when Mr. S, in his infinite magnanimity, decided to help. Hey, why not, -- he thought -- he was having a good day.

“Actually, how about we take you to the consumer district, and I’ll have you chartered to go to Vale on a dust caravan? There’s one leaving in several hours, after all.”

Weiss had been surprised when he’d allowed her to switch back to her original school so easily, and her surprise, surprisingly, didn’t lessen as the incongruities piled on.

She looked suspiciously over at Mr. S.

“What do you mean? Civilians aren’t allowed on dust shipments.”

“I’ll put in a good word for you,” Mr. S said simply.

“And, what do you want?” Weiss asked.

‘Nothing!’ Mr. S almost said.

Instead, he paused as the question drew some ideas in him.

“I’d like for you to spend the day with me,” Mr. S said.

“What!? What could you possibly want that for?”

“Well, you are leaving Atlas, and we probably won’t see each-other for several years.”

“Yes? And?” Weiss said, looking very confused.

“Well, I’d like to spend some time with you before that happens.”

“Ha! And what if I say no!?” Weiss said, very sure of herself.

“Then you won’t leaving for vale until next week,” Mr. S said, very much in control of the negotiations.

Of course, he really didn’t care much about spending time with her. And, under most circumstances, wouldn’t have pushed the matter; but, Mr. S, recalling his true mission now that the hunger had dissipated, remembered something that Mr. Schnee had told him.

* * *

“Very well,” Mr. Schnee said at last, regret and obligation piling equally heavily on the words.

Painfully, with a ponderous turn of intent and expression, Mister Schnee passed himself against that charachter once more, which was now almost glowing with the imperious reality of its presence.

“I… have a secret,” Mister Schnee said, calm and pausing for a dead moment, carefully considering his limited supply of words, “It’s… something I regret doing, but that I can’t possibly regret the consequences of.”

* * *

That, he deduced, was not a lot to go on.

And he didn’t expect spending several hours with Weiss would get him any nearer to finding it, either; but he had to try! Knowing that secret was the key to unlocking Mr. Schnee’s stone prison, and therefore the key to getting someone who knew what they were talking about in the captain's seat!

All he knew was that Mr. Schnee regretted something, and while that only narrowed it down to everything about his entire life, he still couldn’t pass up the opportunity to pick the brain of his most estranged daughter.

And, that most estranged daughter, he noticed, seemed to grow a little less estranged and a lot more wrathful as she sucked a breath in between her teeth, grit her jaws, and threw her luggage into the far wall of the cabin as she stomped her way in, walking past him and into the far recesses of the back seats.

Presently, the shuttle departed, and was soon a shadowy bead against the crimson sky.

Back at the port, with an excellent view of the distant shuttle, Winter sprinted out onto the roof. There, she doubled over with a hand at her side, huffing.

Looking with a concerned expression at the shuttle, and then back at the displayed schedule, she felt the strength of her voice stolen by her breathlessness as she fell into a deeper crouch and yelled: “Damn it!”

* * *

The back line of seats on the shuttle, Mr. S had gathered, were about twelve feet away from where he’d been sitting. So, he found it interesting that Weiss, while distant, never strayed further than those twelve feet once they’d stepped out of the shuttle. Mr. S didn’t mind it much, and her friends, particularly that Ruby character, seemed to warm up to him as they went on their adventure. In particular, he found himself playing the part of an impromptu tour guide to the girl.

And, the first thing he showed her?

Why, the local restaurant, of course! Fulfilled, Mr. S walked out of the place with a content smile on his face, thinking better of mankind. In fact, he even started to reconsider his recent actions, particularly those he’d taken during the more extreme depths of his hunger. Yeah… he’d pretty much acted like an asshole after the McGarnagle revelation, he admitted to himself. And, you know, the conviction suddenly came to him, he ought to apologize! Yeah, that McGarnagle guy was just doing his job. That was no reason to call him a fool and recite Shakespeare in front of him! And, so, taking a quick detour, Mr. S did just that.

As he walked out of the police department and stepped out of the snow-covered streets once more, however -- he did so, unaware of the cross-hairs that had been trained onto him.

* * *

Mr. S, in consideration of the dust palace incident, was not a popular figure at the moment. Everywhere, his face had been painted in unflattering colors.

In the scope, his face was a small familiar spot of features in the high magnification of the scope, and his image bobbed around against the targeter as Scorpa synchronized her breathes to his stride, leveling the errors of her motion as, with every breath, she bobbed the black cross in an increasingly precise parabola just around his head.

Taking another inhalation, and steadying the rhythm of her spark, she tightened her grip on the trigger, readying to exhale, and readying to fire when… she noticed something, in the precipice of her tunnel vision. Blinking her eye, she turned her attention there to the dark figure that shadowed Mr. S. She was a serious woman, with coal dark hair, and midnight eyes that sparkled against her warming skin -- and she was looking at her... directly at her. The woman’s eyes seemed to bore into Scorpia’s eyes through the scope, and then they weren’t anymore, suddenly, when a hard impact sent Scorpa tumbling onto her side.

Her rifle, she could feel, and hear, went falling down the chilly precipice of the building below.

Meanwhile, above her, a pink colored girl with a sugary outfit was digging a toe into her throat.

“Yes! That’s four for me!” She cheered into her scroll, waiting a moment to hear the subdued response of the other lines. “Oh, and you’re totally under arrest, by the way!” she said, turning her attention briefly back to Scorpia.

“Wha- who-”

“Oh, we’re just Mr. Schnee’s personal security forces, best that money can hire, you know, that sort of thing,” she said, turning her hand aimlessly as if gossiping about some inconsequential topic. “Not that this is about the money for me, by the way,” she hastily corrected. “I mean, I really care about this job. You know? It’s like, I don’t like to fail. Schwarz doesn’t hire people who aren’t committed!” She puffed her chest out slightly, hitting a fist onto her shoulder in martial pride. “It’s just that I get so tired of having to give that speech to everyone I catch! Every time, its: ‘Ahh! Who are you!?’” she mimed the voice with a fearful raise of her hands, “and I’m like ‘we’re his secret security force, duh!’ I mean, why else did we catch you?”

“I-”

“Also, I’m supposed to tell you that you have a right to remain silent. Technically, we’re not police, but anything you say to us can be used as a witness statement.” Pressing a finger into her earpiece suddenly, the woman turned aside, speaking into thin air. “Yes, I told her she could remain silent! Stop yelling!” Turning into an annoyed tone of voice. “Yeah, so, you’re totally going to jail, though. Of course, your public charges will be different because, duh, we have to remain secret, and we couldn’t do that if we were on the news for stopping you. But, yeah, you still have a trial, so I wouldn’t start admitting to any other crimes you may or may not have committed.”

The woman paused her tirade suddenly, whipping her head to the side like a dog in front of a squirrel.

Deep in thought, she paused a moment before hastily returning her attention.

“Actually,” she turned down to look at the woman, “tell me, do you think ‘Pinks’; is a good nickname? My name’s Pinkamena, but everyone calls me Pinks, and I’m not tooootallly sure if they’re doing that to make fun of me in a good way, or to make fun of me in a friendly way. Like, I always thought Pinkamena-”

Never had Scorpia felt more punished for her crimes.

* * *

Mr. S, meanwhile, had never felt so great!

With his recent ability to eat, and his recent decision to apologize, he’d conquered both the physical, and moral hungers that had plagued him!

Yeah, he wasn’t saying he was Gandhi... but he was basically Gandhi.

Heck, with these recent accomplishments, he was basically already halfway to saving the world. Whatever that meant.

Turning aside mid stride, Mr. S noticed Schwarz didn’t seem to be in it. She stepped easily past a wandering child, her eyes, all the time, glaring off to a distant point off to the side.

“Schwarz, you alright?”

“Oh,” she turned back to him with an extreme smile. “I’m fine. I was just… getting some reports about some minor troubles in the area.”

“Nothing too bad, I hope.”

“Nothing that couldn’t be handled.” Schwarz said, talking to him in that tone of voice which stated that he really didn’t need to know.

And, so he endavored to know less, and to continue the guided tour of Atlas he’d been giving RWBY. Granted, he didn’t know much about Atlas, so the tour consisted, mainly, of reading out whatever street signs he could catch a glimpse of. He did, however, find very little trouble recognizing the primary Schnee -- currently Green -- palace, despite the fact that it no longer had a sign indicating it as such.

“And, that, there, is the former Primary Schnee Palace,” Mr. S said, pointing at the giant crater in the ground, as well as the various work crews and earth movers that tip-toed about it. The interior of the bowl, already covered in scaffolding, was half-filled with snow and ice-puddles from the remnants of last nights’s snow storm.

“Oooooh!” Ruby said, with impressed overtones, taking a snapshot with her scroll. Yang stood a bit off to the side, while Weiss and Blake followed behind, dejected like a line of convicted ducklings.

“And that there is main-street," he said, pointing off to an iced over street sign that read "Main Street",

“Aaaaah!” Ruby said, raising her scroll up to eye level and snapping another picture.

And, Mr. S, struggling, looked around at the icy wasteland surrounding him and searched for something notable. The sun, having only just risen, and taking its time about it, worked to turn every bit of ice in the land into a a wet, and extremely slippery, bit of ice. Truly, Atlas mornings were shit.

Of course the engineers had planned for this, and the entire city was lined with space heaters for the more common public areas. Space heaters with were mostly inoperative due to the sudden explosion. Everywhere, there was ice, and determined work crews trying to repair the heater damage.

Everywhere, that was, except just several hundred yards in front, where a semi circle of freshly exposed tundra grass indicated operational space heaters.

“And that!” he said, pointing off to a clearing in the far distance, “is the carnival!”

In there, beyond the wall of colorful tents, a gigantic bustle of people could be heard chattering, as half the city seemed drawn there for the convience of warming their feet.

“Huh!” Ruby breathed in with a baited gasp, looking over at Mr. S, and then at the carnival, before looking back over at Mr. S again. “Can We?” her expression seemed to ask.

“At the end of our tour!” Mr. S said, hoping to prolong his interaction with Weiss, despite the disspointly mute stance she’d taken for most of the morning. “First, I’ll show you the precipice. It’s just next to the carnival, actually! I think they built the attraction there so the Ferris wheel would have a good view.”

“The precipice?” Ruby asked.

“Oh, uh, it’s the edge of the city, basically.”

“Edge of the city?” Yang asked this time, confused.

“Well… yes,” Mr. S said. “It’s where the border of the city was set up when they decided to float it.”

“Float it?” both Yang and Ruby said at the same time.

Mr. S looked over at both of the girls with mild confusion.

“Yes,” he answered. “That’s why the city is floating today.”

“The city’s floating!?” they both yelled in concert, looking over at each other with astounded looks.

“No way!” Yang denied.

“I told you the horizon looked different, I told you!” Ruby gloated, smirking over at her sister.

Mr. S, again, looked over at Weiss, who had her temples in hand. You didn’t tell them? His look seemed to say.

“Why didn’t you tell us!?” the sisters demanded of her.

“I thought you knew!” She yelled over at them. “Atlas is the most powerful city in the world! What kind of school did you go to, that I’d need to show it to you like it was some big surprise!?”

“Ok, Patch doesn’t have the greatest schools!” Ruby admitted with teary eyes. “Why do you keep bringing that up!”

“I’m not bringing it up! You just keep asking obvious questions!”

“Ok, well-”

“How about we just go to the precipice.” Mr. S said, shepherding them away from their argument. “It’s really a magnificent view!”

* * *

“Please, do not spit over the side,” the chipped sign read, it’s bolt holes rusting as they affixed it to the metal safety-railing that encircled the city.

Next to it were a pair of stationary binoculars. “Experience the View! 25 cents,” the sign next to the artifact read.

And, what a view it was!

Below, was the old city of Mantle. Granted, the old city was currently in the middle of a hurried clean up after the unfortunate sewage break, but it still looked alright from a distance.

But it wasn’t the only view, Mr. S noticed, hunched forward against the head set; for, ahead of him was the majestic horizon of the northern sea, and the impeccable brilliance of the southern sky, and there was the sun-!

Ok, ow, ow, don’t look at the sun.

But, still, all around him were magnificent vistas!

And, behind him, was the continuing argument.

“Look, Ruby,” Weiss stressed, “I’m sorry if I sounded derisive. I didn’t mean that. But, you just keep asking me these very basic things. It’s as if you don’t even know anything about this world! You’re almost worse than Jaune! I was just saying that you seem to be missing some very basic knowledge. Like to what person, would it be a surprise that Atlas is a floating city? It’s one of the biggest cities in the world, and floating is its most notable feature!” Weiss started up again, sounding very angry and derisive. “I mean, what were they teaching you- YANG!”

Yang, eyes bulging, nearly tipped over the edge as she hastily tired to slurp back the stand of spit which dangled from her lips, rapidly twining it up in her index fingers with a panicked expression.

“No! Don't swallow it back!” Weiss ran over stuffing out several handkerchiefs as she set about cleaning a reluctant Yang's face, Yang, pulling away from the not so gentle touch of the heiress as she ground the cleaning implements against her cheek.

“What was that?” Weiss demanded. “The sign says ‘no spitting’”!

“Come on, it’s already covered in sewage!” Yang implored, gesturing down at the city.

“What, I don’t see any sewage!” Ruby said, disappointed, having run over to bend her entire upper body over the edge of the railing, her feet lifting off the ground as she pendulated over the metal fulcrum.

“That’s because you’re staring at that weird metal thing, Rubes. I’m surprised you can even see the city.”

“Yeah, actually, what is that?” Ruby, at once forgetting her disappointment, pointed to the large, flat sheet of metal which stuck perpendicularly out from the side of the floating city.

It hung just several feet beneath the edge of the precipice, and it’s great area was pressed with embroidered designs of various abstract knots. Looking to either side, Ruby could see twins of the structure lining the edge of the city, appearing once every several yards around the perimeter.

“Actually, what are those?” Ruby corrected, instinctually turning to Mr. S for eludication.

Mr. S, having, by this point, digested several books worth of knowledge about Atlas in an attempt to not seem like an outsider, actually found the study coming in handy!

“Oh, those are called, ‘Cliff Hangars’,” he answered readily. “When Atlas was floated, they used those as landing ports and hangars for small shuttles until the tether system was constructed. Of course, once the tethers _were_ set up, shuttles were no longer necessary to travel, and these fell out of favor.” He gestured to the Cliff Hangar, with an immediate shrug. “Nobody actually uses these anymore, honestly; they just found it was too expensive to remove them, and the city didn’t care, so they left them in place.”

“Wow,” Ruby said taking another picture.

“Yeah,” Yang agreed, spitting over the side.

“Yang!” Weiss yelled, about to explode. “You… Well!... Actually... just, go to the fair,” Weiss said, tired of her growing headache.

Mr. S started to push back, but was preempted.

“Look, we’ll talk there, ok?” Weiss said, unenthused. “It’s obvious you want something from me, so I’m not sure why you’re insisting on making everyone come along.”

Mr. S, having to this point centered their tour around more quiet spots in an attempt to speak to Weiss, nodded in appreciation of the pragmatism, and waved them along.

“Very well,” he admitted “I have actually been meaning to talk with you.”

At that work from Mr. S, and at a nod from Weiss, they traveled along the edge of the city, curving towards the distant carnival ahead. As they traveled along, the rest of the group casually separated themselves from Weiss and Mr. S, forming a bubble of distance around the pair in what was either a show of courtesy or fear. Even Schwarz, confined to the limits of her allowances, stepped off several feet to the side, allowing them as much privacy as her work could allow.

“Ok,” Weiss said. “What?” speaking quickly.

“What, what?” Mr. S chuckled, “can’t a father want to talk?” he asked.

“No, he can’t,” Weiss said, “not after 11 years of neglect, dad!” She spoke the words with rising acid, and with an emotional distance that belied the poison in her words. “Not after blackmailing me into gawking around like a tourist with you.”

“Would you have come, otherwise?” Mr. S retorted.

“No! And, I shouldn’t have to! I don’t want to! What part of ‘leave me alone’ can’t you understand!?” Weiss’s voice broke like a glass harmonica, and released a stream of tears -- quiet and sudden tears.

It was a disheartening sight, but not one Mr. S couldn’t understand. People didn’t break when situations got stressful, most of the time. They broke when they eased up. And, Weiss, he presumed, really only felt safe when she’d been guaranteed safe passage away from him. And, he wasn’t a stranger to that feeling, either. His life hadn’t been all sunshine and paternal love, either, from his end. But, despite knowing that, and despite empathising, Mr. S still was at a loss with what to do. He wasn’t extremely good with people…

He was, however, good with numbers.

“Wait,” he turned to her suddenly, “you said I was neglectful for the past ten years.”

“Yes?” Weiss was facing away from him, cleaning up her cheek trails with the heel of her hand. “What of it?”

“You’re seventeen,” Mr. S noted.

“Are you just going to sit here stating the obvious?”

“So, I wasn’t so bad until you were seven?” he said.

“No,” Weiss denied, “I think I just managed despite you back then. Mother was-” She took a deep breath, troubling herself to be calm.

“I’m-” Mr. S started his sentence, and then choked on it.

He had, out of habit, readied himself to say, “I’m sorry,” to this stranger, to this girl he barely knew, like he had to so many strangers in the past.

But, he remembered… he was this girl’s father. Or he was playing that part anyway.

Mr. S had a daughter, once, and even their bad memories were dear to him, now. And now he was lying to this girl, pretending to have that same connection. Granted, he was doing it -- he thought -- for good reasons; but he really, really hated lying, and he definitely wasn’t comfortable saying “I’m sorry,” on Mister Schnee’s behalf. That… would perhaps be too great a lie for him to stomach, and for her, too, he gathered from the disdainful expression that crossed her face when he started his sentence.

“I’m...” he repeated, and cleared his throat, “I’m surprised... to hear you admit, that even some of our memories together were… not as bad.”

“Of course they weren’t,” Weiss snapped, still refusing to look at him. “Anything that goes on long enough has differences. All that means is that you were worse some days than others, happy? Are you expecting a thank you because you actually acted like a father for seven years!?”

Now, that, Mr. S decided, had been an informative admission.

“I… know I’m responsible for how we’ve… come to be,” Mr. S said, speaking carefully so as not to say something that the real Mister Schnee hadn’t admitted to. “But, I’m trying to fix it now. I’m trying to recall who I was before. It’s important.” He said, trying to code everything, including his demands for information.

“What? You’re trying to remember yourself into being decent?” Weiss scoffed.

“No.” Mr. S said. “I’m just trying to find out how I’ve been to you.” Weiss started to speak, but he cut her off. “I know the obvious! But, I’ve always wondered what questions you may have had.”

Weiss turned to look at him. And, coldly, she began to speak.

“Are you listening to yourself?” She asked, looking earnestly into his eyes, even as her fists shook with rage. “What questions I may have had? How I saw you?... Whitley’s afraid of you!" she yelled. "Do you know that! It’s not as if you couldn’t have! I can’t remember the last time I felt anything but bile from you! Why do you think Winter's off in the military all the time! Why do you think I’d help you with anything, just because you’ve come now saying ‘you regret!? I mean, do you have any idea what you sound like, coming out to me after all these years with this!? What even am I to you!”

Mr. S chained himself to the brief list of truths he could muster, remembering what Mister Schnee had told him.

“You’re my daughter.” Mr. S said, straining under the weight of his words, consoling himself with the thought that he wouldn’t be saying anything that Mr. Schnee himself hadn’t. “And, I don’t expect you to believe me, but I do care for you.”

“Yeah, that’s why you’ve twisted my arm to bring me here.” Weiss rolled her eyes.

Mr. S didn’t slow down. “I’m asking you now, because I’ve been put in the position of having few people to trust and… I’m rather inclined to favor that you’re one of the people I can depend on. I know we’ve had our differences, but I wouldn’t leave you out to any harm, and I know you, at least, wouldn’t disregard me, either.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Weiss said, more subdued.

Mr. S wondered at the sudden shift in her character, when an explosion rocked the fair grounds to the east, nearly bowling him over.

Weiss, the thought already planted in her mind, was eager to search for and quick to find the red portal which, flying high in the sky, sent her heart rocketing.

They were already in the fairgrounds now, and, to their left, the garish tent-walls and carnival attractions formed a haphazard border against them; the safety rails of the precipice rose against their right.

“Blake!” the whisper pulled itself involuntarily from her lips, and Weiss left, jetting off towards the fair in a blur, and disappearing from Mr. S’s view: which saw nothing but the after image, and heard nothing but the monstrous crack of her departure as he felt himself, already off balance from the explosion, pushed back by the resulting shock-wave and began stumbling back, falling.

Schwarz was beside him in a nanosecond.

Taking careful view of her surroundings, she whipped her head to the side. The red portal, formerly high in the air in the distance, was now gone, and reforming right next to them. At the moment, it was a small, fist-sized thing swirling in the air and growing.

Working at speed, she looked left, right, center, there! Yang, was stepping back from a carnival stand, looking worried in the direction of the recent carnage. Fire and smoke were rising in the distance.

Without thought, Schwarz ran. Reaching the girl in a flash, Schwarz grabbed Yang by the shoulders, and didn’t stop running. Already, they’d traveled a hundred Yards by the time Yang mustered a non-violent reaction to the intrusion of her personal space.

“There’s a portal coming!” Schwarz yelled. "It's tied to you isn't it?"

Yang looked at her with horrified, wide, eyes, her guilt immeasurable and speaking volumes. “I-”

“No time!” Schwarz yelled. "Just keep running to the other side of the city as fast as you can! Don’t stop! I’ll send your friends after you!"

Her advice was heeded, and -- in its turn -- back at the fairgrounds, the portal was diminishing, quickly losing substance as its focus fled away. Soon, it lost size, and translucency, and altogether disappeared.

Mr. S, for his part, splashed onto the warm mud of the fairgrounds, catching himself on a hand and a knee as snow-melt and dirt soaked into his trousers.

Unsurprisingly, he’d failed to notice the exact details of recent events.

He did, however, looking down the long alley of the carnival, notice the most recent arrival.

A man in a bowler hat stood casually off in the far distance, walking closer and, very occasionally, flickering forward between one spot and another, leaving behind him, rising dust trails as markers of his wake.

Soon, he was within telephone distance, and stopped, twirling a cane in one hand.

“You’re Jacques Schnee?” he asked, looking down at him with a jolly figure.

“Look,” Mr. S put a hand on his knee, rising into a stand, “if this is about the dust palace, I honestly had nothing to do with that.”

“Oh, you don’t have to lie to me!” Torchwick said, giving. “Really, I tip my hat to you -- managing that bit of deception. I mean, I was _working_ with Adam and I didn’t suspect. And, have you seen the numbers! My portfolios have gone through the roof because of you! Did you know I was on the verge of selling when the attack happened! I really thought you’d lost it after the initial depression, but I’ll be honest, I was a fool to ever doubt you! Bravo, my friend,” Torchwick clapped casually, cane hanging off one hand. “In any case, that’s not why I’m trying to kill you.”

“You’re here because of Adam?” Mr. S guessed.

“Pfa!” Torchwick laughed. “No!" he calmed himself, once again taking a more professional tone -- "I’m here because I have certain benefactors, and they’re quite keen to see you dead.”

“I… don’t imagine I’d be able to convince you to take a bribe?” Mr. S gathered, slowly walking back from the man.

“Hmm,” Torchwick mulled it, “that... wouldn’t be good for my health,” he decided at last, when an explosion took off behind him.

Mr. S, startled, bumped back, feeling himself arrested when his back pressed against the safety barrier, the chill steel seeping against the cloth of his jacket.

Blinking his eyes, and looking to the space behind Torchwick, he saw, through the falling clods of dirt that plodded about the space, Schwarz, hunched forward and crossing blades with what he assumed was a scorpion faunus.

“Haha! This one has fight!” The scorpion man yelled, as Schwarz grit her teeth, bearing down on him.

Torchwick looked back at the scene with surprise, and not a little bit of fear. “Yeah,” he said, looking at Tyrian who -- having hooked his blades onto Schwarz’s -- was wrestling with the woman to keep her still, “thanks for the save,” Torchwich begrudgingly admitted.

“Your backup isn’t coming!” Schwarz yelled over at Torchwick. “Raven hasn’t made it through her portal, and I doubt she’ll be in any condition to make a new one while her focus is running full speed to the other side of the city!” She grunted, pulling a hard charge forward, and managing to slide Tyrian several feet over the wet grass before, once again, she was halted. “I suggest you leave now if you know what’s good for you!”

Torchwick looked back worriedly again at the encroaching violence, but then looked confidently back again at Mr. S. “No, actually, I don’t think I will,” he shouted over his shoulder at the woman. “I just got here, and, to be honest, I’m wondering how long your blonde will be able to keep up that sort of pace. Not too long, I imagine,” he said, planting his cane into the ground definitively at the statement, and leaning onto it with a content smirk.

Her gambit having failed, Schwarz turned to the next, obvious choice of action.

“Mr. Schnee, get out of here! I’ll hold them off!”

And, oh, how Mr. S wanted to; how his desperately shaking legs and rapidly beating heart attested to his deep and unresolvable craving to run away. Unfortunately, he was realist, and realized that, despite having done cross-country that one time, he was unlikely to be able to outpace these bullet people. So, he turned to Schwarz and answered, heroically:

“I’m not going to leave you here, Schwarz!”

“You have to! Leave! Now!” Schwarz yelled with a tyrannical voice, bringing to bear all that intense professionalism and sense of duty that drove her to know that, whatever her position, this was her arena and her responsibility and, consequently, her turn of command.

Tyrian, getting the upper hand, pushed back against her with a sudden exertion, bringing them back to their original spot, laughing madly all the while.

“Yeah, I’d listen to her,” Torchwick said casually, pointing back at the scene.

“Then leave,” Mr. S said.

“Excuse me?”

“I know your type,” Mr. S said. “You haven't stopped looking back at her ever since she arrived. I doubt you’d've even noticed her if your friend there hadn’t intervened on your behalf.”

“What are you getting at?” Torchwick asked.

“I’m saying you’re unusually skittish for a professional killer. I imagine you’re the type to get other people to do the dirty work, and I imagine you’re probably not too well equipped for a straight fight.”

Once, when he was a younger man, Mr. S -- fresh initiated into his first calling -- found himself assigned some ‘relevant reading’ by an over obsessive Middle Manager. It was some bunk about _Management Principles of Sun-Tzu and Ghengis Khan, or Whatever._

Of course, Mr. S didn’t read it, no one did. However, the episode did inspire him to check out the Art of War, and he remembered something from it just this moment. It wasn’t anything useful, that could get him out of this situation, mind -- rather, it was something that worked to bring sense to the situation. Sun-Tzu, he recalled, had said something along the lines of: “When outnumbered, trap your men against a wall, and they, seeing no opportunity for retreat, will commit themselves totally to the fight.”

He was paraphrasing, but the general idea, he could now see, applied pretty generously to his situation.

Not the part about fighting, mind -- god no, he had absolutely no chance if it came down to a fight.

But, seeing no avenue of escape, and little chance for victory, Mr. S committed himself totally to his act. It was something that came with the certainty of it all. His only option was talking, so he would talk, with none of the emotional distractions like “hope of a snowball’s chance in hell” or “a fighting chance” to get in the way.

The result?

Well, let us say he committed himself totally, so totally that even he himself started to believe it when he, standing up with a straight back and a low heart-rate, looked Torchwich straight in the eye and said:

“If, you’re eager to turn this into a violent affair, why not come here and do so? I’ve grown rather bored of all this talking, to be honest.”

Torchwick, seeing the resolve, and feeling a bit taken aback, though still unwilling to lose face, took a small step back, ready for flight, while, in the same stance, he began to raise his cane in aim-

“I should warn you,” Mr. S said, preempting the gesture, “that, if you leave now, for good, there will be forgiveness. I’m busy, and I’m willing to… overlook this indiscretion. But, the moment you pull that trigger… I will kill you.”

Torchwick hesitated, and lowered his cane. but covered up that hesitation with a desire to talk.

“Kill me?” Torchwick taunted. “What can you know about death?”

“It’s a bloody world in my business,” Mr. S leaned back again against the rail and set to fixing his cuffs. “Not to mention, an inordinate amount of people seem interested in mine, including, if I recall correctly, your benefactors.”

“That they are." Torchwick said. "If it helps, I honestly suggested someone else be our target.”

“Silence!” Tyrian yelled back from where he still was trapped with Schwarz. “Do not speak of the process!”

Torchwick ignored him. “Curious?” he asked, keeping his attention firmly trained onto Mr. S now.

Mr. S leaned over against a pair of stationary binoculars that were erected next to him. He did this to keep himself from acknowledging the sugar-pink girl that was, from the far distance, now quietly sneaking up on their group.

Considering the fact that she was in his, and Schwarz’s, line of sight at the moment -- he guessed her to be, generally, on their side. Of course, he didn’t look at her, no. He kept her as a pink spot in his periphery while keeping the main of his focus trained on Torchwick, trying to distract him.

“Who wouldn’t be?” Mr. S answered. “It’s not often people manage to get this close to me uninvited. A person who can organize that seems like someone to know.”

“And, what?” Torchwick asked, “you want their card?”

“Their exact location would be fine, actually.” Mr. S said, blood heightening as he noticed the pink girl had grown closer, and was now in a close position, redaying to pounce.

“And, you expect me to tell you that?” Torchwick asked.

“No,” Mr S answered as the girl crouched low, ready to dive, “I expect you to die!”

And, the girl launched forward with a crack, barreling into Torchwick and sending their bodies dragging through the dirt on the diagonal, digging a trench through it as a vast rumble ran through the earth, felt through Mr. S’s feet.

Torchwick, in the chaos, managed to send a haphazard shot that landed between him and Schwarz, dissolving the bounds that held her to Tyrian as the two of them leapt apart from the mess of dust that had exploded into the air.

Mr. S, ears ringing and holding back several coughs, tumbled back against the railing, hardly noticing that the binocular pole next to him had -- with a crash of polygons, --transformed into a tri-colored girl who -- with a smile and a curtsy -- reached out a hand and, gently, pushed him that little bit further over the edge of his imbalance.

She, he’d noticed when he finally looked at her, was already walking away from him while he, legs lifting involuntarily off the ground as his upper body tipped him over the railing, felt a sudden, heart wrenching sense of vertigo as Schwarz, unnoticed by him, fell into another tangle with Tyrian.

And, watching as the world turned around him, Mr. S fell like a dead weight, tumbling in time to the scenery.

It was a weightless feeling that hit him as he dropped uncontrollably off the side of Atlas, a thousand foot fall below him.

And then, several moments later, he stopped, brought to a sudden halt by a flat metal plane, embroidered with pressed figures of abstract knots.

The shuttle hangar! Thank god for apathetic local government!

He took all of this in with a thundering heart and rapidly fogging breaths.

He shivered, noticing the sudden extreme chill of the high air now that he’d fallen beyond the borders of Atla’s artificial atmosphere. In-fact, he felt a little light-headed as well.

The morning sun beamed in behind him. Mr. S rose steadily onto his knees on the plane, shivering. As he did so, he noticed that the metal plane was just a bit off from being perpendicular. It was, now that he noticed, actually tilted several degrees in a downwardly direction; whether that was by design, or degradation, he wasn’t sure.

He was sure, however, that thin sheet of ice and slippery water which covered the hangar, wasn’t.

And, another thing he noticed, was that he was sliding down!

It wasn’t a particularly fast slide, he was only moving several inches every ten seconds or so, he was, however, speeding up.

And, it was strange what such a slow movement did to the rapidity of his heart because, over the course of his slow slide, Mr. S looked around at the metal, plate hangar he was situated on and saw no handholds.

Flat. Everything was crisply flat and covered by ice. The edges were rounded off corners with nothing, but ungraspable smoothness lining them. The steel was flat, the ice was flat, and his heartbeat, soon, he was sure, was going to flat-line when he smashed onto the ground below at terminal velocity.

Now he was at the final quarter of the meta plate, and his feet were peeking dangerously over the edge.

Looking up at the edge of the city ten feet above him, and seeing little chance of rescue, he laid flat, trying to slow his decent as his body slid steadily over the edge. He didn’t know why he bothered, but his body cried out on instinct, trying to prolong his life as, with a lurch, his hips went over the edge, and brought a sudden jerk that sent him sliding several inches at speed before he pulled out his broach pen, and stabbed it into the ice, managing, for a moment, to halt his decent -- until the pen skittered off, anyway, and his quickly stiffening fingers found no purchase to catch it again.

Damn it! Why didn’t he get the one with an icepick instead of an eraser! Why did they invent erasable ink!?

At this point -- as his lower abdomen left the plate -- Mr. S was resigned to his fate, but struggling against it nonetheless as he frantically palmed at the wet surface of the ice -- his legs, he intensely bent against the underside of the structure, ignoring the icicles that jabbed against his upper thighs and trying, as it were, to grip the structure with his body.

But, he did so to no avail. And, as he did so, he looked again at the attachments which held the hangar against the sides of the city, and deduced, after studying the nature of the metal bars that held it against the rock that -- indeed -- the slight angle of this metal plate was by design. Or, at least, it was within the tolerances set out for it.

To think, if this thing had just been installed a few degrees higher, this wouldn’t be happening.

As the very last portion of his upper body left the object, and he felt himself on the verge of, with a sudden jerk, falling to his doom, Mr. S thought, frantically, some appropriate admonition or curse to depart with.

He thought of the people who made this damned steel port, he thought of the city council that allowed it to be made, but came up short on names.

So, instead, looking down at the metal plate he was sliding down, he defaulted to -- with the last of his salvageable breaths -- cursing the inanimate object of his demise instead.

What were these things called again?

Oh, yeah.

He hated Cliff Hangars!

* * *


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

* * *

Sometimes, what you don’t say can speak louder than any shout. And Mr. S, as his trembling fingers slipped fatally away, was surprised at the dearth of words that faced him. His mind flashed through the instants, quietly observing the Hangar slowly recede above him.

And then, a kind hand supported him -- hooking underneath his arms, and wrapping around the length of his back.

It was a surprisingly gentle arrest from motion; for, in one short swoop, Mr. S found himself carried in the sure grip of a deliriously pink girl -- whose frizzy hair curled against the high-altitude winds. One of her hands hugged him tightly against her while the other reached up, acting as a swaying vine they hung from. Glancing up, Mr. S saw that her fingers were deeply embedded into the inch-thick layer of ice that covered the metal plate.

Why hadn’t he thought of that…

He looked back at the woman, who donned an impressive smile. She’d been the one who tackled the cane wielding man, if he remembered correctly.

“Uh, hi,” he greeted, voice diffuse in the thin atmosphere.

“Hi!” She shouted back, apparently lacking volume controls. For a heart stopping moment, Mr. S felt her supporting arm twitch -- taken by an instinctive desire to wave enthusiastically; but she thought better of it, and instead hugged him closer to herself. “How are ya?” she asked, voice pitching up to a sugary squeak.

“Fine, at the moment,” Mr. S said. “How did you get here?” he asked, feeling the urge to shout as the wind picked up.

At which point -- as if in answer -- Mr. S saw the carnival scene briefly flash in his vision before it replaced itself with the dingy walls of a back alley.

Schwarz, now near him, was facing the back alley, blades in hand and head wheeling about as she took in her surroundings and -- noticing Pinkamena -- stepped away from the hand the girl had pressed up against her back.

Mr. S -- honestly just glad to be on solid ground -- didn’t offer any of the obvious questions. Taking a look around, he noticed the rectangular block of sky above -- the only source of light in the maze of brick walls that surrounded them.

Schwarz turned to the brightly dressed woman with an authoritative look. “Pinkamena,” she addressed with a nod.

Pinkamena straightened into an exaggeratedly stiff pose, raising a hand in salute over an expression so hard it could have been machined into existence. “Yes, Schwarz!” she announced, lowering her hand and returning almost immediately to her previous, jovial stance. All of this done in the space of a second, and without any hint of unprofessionalism.

“Report,” Schwarz said.

“Five enemy figures sighted, at least one illusionist and one sensor, mam!” Pinkamena yelled, as if reporting on a sports game.

“And Raven is involved in this attack, too,” Schwarz added. “She’s likely to create a portal in the industrial district not too long from now, so keep an eye out for combatants there, as well.”

“Will do!” Pinkamena saluted again, cheerily.

“First order of business, though -- take us to the castle,” Schwarz ordered, holding open her arms as if inviting Pinkamena to make physical contact.

Mr. S, in anticipation of the moment, did the same.

Pinkamena looked off to the side.

“Ehe,” she chuckled, rubbing her shoulder. “I, uh, I can’t,” she offered, somehow laughing her words out despite the dark bags under her eyes.

“What do you mean you can’t?” Schwarz scowled, not understanding. “You brought us here, after all.”

“Yeah,” Pinkie agreed, turning to face them, “and I can totally take you to the castle, I can. It’s just that, after the recent ports, my heart rate goes up, and… you know, since I’m more susceptible in that state, my hands just started shaking, and... I’m not sure I’m up for the precision work of taking other people with me and, the castle…. Uh, It’s... just... a bit far away,” she said, her voice similarly distant and melancholic

Schwarz’s angry look faded into one of understanding, and her voice came with sympathetic anguish. “Oh, gods, Pinkamena, don’t tell me you’re on drugs again!”

Pinkamena nodded sadly.

“I thought we agreed you’d quit!”

“But I don’t want toooo!” Pinkamena whined, lolling her head back with frustration.

“Do I have to start paying you in food stamps again!?” Schwarz threatened.

“You know I’ll just sell them,” Pinkamena turned her eyes down with shameful despair.

Schwarz, in response, let out a patient breath, shaking her head and closing her eyes as she willed herself to look away from the party girl.

“Ok,” Schwarz opened her eyes and directed them at Pinkamena. “We’ll take the overland route back to the castle,” she said, indicating herself and Mr. S. “You gather the rest of the team, and keep them off our trail.”

“Okie, dokie!” Pinkie saluted, cheerful again. Crouching lightly, a puff of air gusted from her position, and she disappeared, for a moment, from Mr. S’s view; looking up after a moment, he saw her silhouette arcing through that block of light onto the rooftops.

“Ok,” Schwarz turned to Mr. S, now wearing a business-like expression that brooked no argument. “Let’s go.”

And she went, tearing down the alley, vaulting over a garbage collection unit, and cornering the far turn -- managing this feat despite the fact that she’d just broken Earth’s land-speed record for olympic sprinters.

Mr. S sprinted after her, barely keeping a bronze-medal pace.

He was only halfway down the alley when, after a pondering moment, Schwarz came sprinting back in a panic.

“What’s wrong?” her look seemed to ask. It needn’t have, it was obvious.

‘I’m not Mr. Schnee. I’m an imposter that can only run at human speeds!’

That was the truthful answer. And, also the answer most likely to get him killed in the long run, Mr. S decided.

So, Mr. S, with unbridled sagacity, answered instead: “Schwarz, I’m not so sure running is our best recourse.”

Schwarz, again, eyes blinking rapidly, looked at him without understanding.

“If we rush, we’re more liable to make mistakes.” Mr. S explained. “Likely, they don’t even know where we are, so if we take it slow and hide-”

“We know you’re here, Schnee!” Torchwick’s voice blared in the distorted tones of a megaphone. “Come out and make this easy on yourself!”

Schwarz looked at him with increasing urgency.

“They’re probably just trying to flush us out,” Mr. S defended. “I mean why would they announce themselves if they knew exactly-”

Schwarz disappeared from view, and the sudden gust of her appearance behind him was his only warning before the chain-gun rattling bore down on him from everywhere.

Have you ever heard a gun shot? A real one? It’s a lot louder than regulations allow Dolby-Digital to show. And Mr. S, while never having heard so much as a single round fired in his entire life, was intellectually aware of the decibel system, and of it’s logarithmic nature, and of how, on that range, a gun-shot landed somewhere in the range of “ten times louder than a running jack hammer” and “fuck you, have some tinnitus”.

And, whoever was behind him, apparently was a fan of rusty nails as a child, because Mr. S was certain he was now deaf, only able to hear the barking gun-fire through the vibrations that hammered against his chest.

He saw only darkness as this went on. His eyes shut instinctively as the world shook. The coming bullets ran together into a single stream, and it felt like the air was tearing itself apart around him as he stood, pinned in place, between the running streams of gun-fire that ran either side of him.

He wasn’t sure how it came to be, but, in an adrenaline cracked moment, he found himself, with eyes open, facing back towards the gunfire. Schwarz was standing defensively in front of him, blurring blades through the glowing volume of space before her, which was filled with a curtain of ricochet sparks and which hid the perpetrator from his view. All around him, fist sized holes appeared -- as if by magic -- in the concrete and masonry.

And Mr. S ran, adrenaline boosting him to the silver podium as he turned the far corner and found Schwarz standing on the other side, steam rising from her bloody blades. He noticed, in the brief moment of calm that followed, that the air was now empty of noise.

“Come on!” Schwarz, not waiting for any argument, ran urgently down the alley, breaking Earth’s land-speed record for production cars.

As soon as she passed the second corner, the walls of the alley collapsed, blocking his way like he was a struggling Taoist.

Torchwick, Tyrian, Neo, and one other figure came through the resulting hole, yelling for him.

Of course, Confucius did say desire was the root of suffering, after all. So Mr. S decided to look on the bright side.

For one, this did furnish him with the perfect excuse for why he wasn’t able to keep up with Schwarz.

Really, they’d saved him from the humiliation of exposing his below average running speed.

“Come out here so we can gut you already!” The psychotic sounding scorpion faunus yelled, raising his blades into the air and clanging them together with impatient fury.

...lucky him.

* * *

We’ll note here that most hunter battles are high speed, high damage affairs, and rarely last longer than several seconds.

So, really, it was a mark of her immense loyalty and pride that Schwarz only retreated after fighting for twenty seconds.

...

Schwarz was assaulted by practicality.

Schwarz raised a blade, and filled the alley with fire, willing herself to jump through the flames her enemies had avoided -- but, again, she was intercepted. In the alley, the space was far to narrow for trespass.

Again, Tyrian took the blow of her approach and Schwarz was forced to accelerate, falling back just in time to dodge Neo’s counter stroke.

Landing, Schwarz feinted low and went high, leaping from wall to wall, and forced to dodge back from a precise stab of Neo’s parasol.

The blade barely missed, caressing her cheek as she whipped back to avoid the lightning fast jab.

Schwarz overcorrected in her dodge, and her acceleration sent her slamming into the ground, skidding back to the alley mouth. Behind her, the open street, ahead -- Neo and Tyrian were guarding the corner.

Of course, they had no need to follow her, Mr. Schnee was trapped on the other side against three to one odds, and here she’d already wasted 15 seconds. If only she could get past-

No.

She stopped that thought.

Looking back, Schwarz noticed for the first time the approaching storm clouds that hung over the inland, and she noticed an approaching beacon of white bounding over the rooftops -- Raven, with her horrid bone mask -- guiding a train of other figures to their location. Among them was Cinder.

Schwarz was assaulted by practicality.

She was tortured by sensibility.

She wanted to die fighting, she wanted to die in this alley, comforted by the sight of her blood running into the gutters, just to wash away the distress of honor that stabbed her.

She accelerated herselt, and felt her blades pulling at her hands, lifting them into the air infront of her. Her chest and lungs were warmed by unfulfilled, torturous, anticipation, and it was something that beckoned for stab to distract from it.

She would kill one of them before she died, she decided. Trying for both would be too risky, and would distract her, but, if she picked one, she knew she’d could trade her life for theirs.

Her heart beats blended together as she accelerated, growing into a warm, electrical hum that lit up her chest, and sending her blood flow smoothly through her like circling laser beams.

Her hands moved themselves to a ready position, and her legs moved to a ready stance, feet placed in the perfect position as her body balanced itself until it was weightless, and the world teetered under her as if a slight shift in any direction would send her rocketing towards it.

But, Schwarz, unfortunately, had been trained to the peak of her field. She’d trained herself until her stances were as instinctual as breathing. But, unfortunately, she’d also trained her perception until it could supersede her body’s desires.

Even as her chest shook and her thoughts roared with tearing accusations of cowardice, she turned and left the alley.

Raven wasn’t too far away now, and it was nine to one odds. And, while Mr. Schnee was trapped, there were places where she was better used.

The security team was only thirty seconds away from arriving, maybe twenty if she reached them in time. She’d intercept them, tell them the location, and maybe save-

No.

She looked at the world through impartial eyes, now. And her insights were as frightening as they were harsh. Even as she looked with stoic figure however, she was aware, however faintly, that she would pay for this, someday… they all would.

She forced herself not to feel pity for Mr. Schnee. He’d… died in action, fighting valiantly against overwhelming odds.

* * *

“I’m telling you, he’s not here!” the sensor insisted, “and if he is, he’s dead.”

Mr. S was lying face down in the thick snow, hiding valiantly in the rubble and trying not to cough on the powdered cement which hung in the air like a thick fog. Braving himself, he tilted his head back the slightest bit, peeking out from the trench of snow his fallen body had created, and sending several snowflakes streaming up from where they’d stuck to his hair.

The figures were indistinct against the fog, and lacked definite shapes.

One of them gestured in response. He thought he recognized the figure as the one who’d threatened him back at the precipice. “And I’m telling you to check again!” Torchwick yelled. I saw both of them coming in through this alley, and only one of them came out! And that secretary hasn’t been banging away at us because he’s not here!”

The sensor, at the height of her frustration, raised four fingers up to her temples in an exaggerated fashion. She held the pose for a second and then straightened back up, flashing open her brightly glowing eyes. “There! Checked again! He’s not here!” she announced, yelling. “Happy?”

“Check again!” Torchwick demanded.

“Hey, maybe he did die?” A mercury clad boy suggested, arms crossed and legs scissored as he leant against one of the remaining portions of the alley wall.

“Are you listening to yourself?” Torchwick looked all around him with the offended sensibilities of a craftsman. “Nobody dies from this!” He gestured at the surrounding rubble, and Mr. S looked warily at a one-ton block of stone that had landed not too far from him. “Besides, I doubt Salem will be happy with us if we come back with a nice story about how he probably died out of sight.”

“You mean, she won’t be happy with you,” Cinder glared. “You are ‘leading’ this expedition after all.”

“Oh, I’d like to see you-”

“Enough,” Raven sighed, voice eerie with resonance as it traveled through her hollow mask. “We’re wasting time. It’s obvious he escaped.”

“Damn it!” Torchwick yelled, kicking a loose stone.

“Well, what are we supposed to do now?” Cinder said, sounding mildly annoyed. “We don’t exactly have all day until the authorities arrive.”

“His security team isn’t too far away, either,” the sensor said; her glowing eyes stared through a nearby wall.

“We’ll follow his security team,” Raven said. “Likely, they have ways of tracking him, and they’ll be looking for his body.”

“I’m not sure that’s a great idea,” Torchwick hesitated. “We’re not exactly equipped for a fight, here.” He gestured at the sensor, and at himself.

“We won’t need the advantage,” Raven said boredly. “Erra, here,” Raven nodded her head towards a girl with cut-off sleeves who apparently was an acquaintance of hers, “can amplify people’s semblances. And I hear your Emerald can cast illusions,” she finished suggestively, hanging her statement on a bait hook.

Torchwick was eager to bite. “We can blind the lot of them with illusions!” he yelled triumphantly, and with sudden realization. “They’ll never see it coming!” he held his cane in the middle and waved the hook up into the air, dancing slightly

“Excuse me,” Cinder interrupted, glaring at Raven, “I thought the whole point of bringing you along was so that we wouldn’t _have_ to fight his entire security team? And now you’re suggesting we do exactly that?” Cinder, still smarting under her current subordinate position, stoked herself into a new fury, apparently not happy that even her authority over Emerald had been commandeered by this stranger.

“Are you afraid?” Raven asked.

“No.” Cinder answered.

And, to Cinder’s credit, she didn’t so much as flinch when the sensor’s head exploded, splattering into an impromptu grenade of blood and bone chunks.

And, precisely in the center of their little shin-dig -- using the words Melva would later use to describe the event -- on an invisible section of flat ground, two pairs of bright eyes landed, lashing out with bullets and blades before quickly retreating into the fog and noise of the reverberating sound.

The next several seconds were a dance of the blind, as the whole group circled around one another with panic.

Raven pulled out her sword into a wide arc, and stood, tree-like, with a wide stance. She directed her attention downward in a fashion that told that she was emphasising her sense of hearing.

Cinder was far less meditative about the fight, and sent some small fire blasts arcing in random directions, failing to do anything but blind herself as the flames turned the reflective dust into opaque light.

One of these fire blasts, sent the very tip of it’s flame just above Mr. S’s prone form, leaving glowing dust particles hovering over him as he crashed several inches down into the sudden puddle of snowmelt he found himself in.

Mr. S observed all of this, and Mr. S decided that now would be a good time to run.

So he got up, and sprinted as quietly as he could, back the way he came.

Unfortunately, he’d -- earlier that morning -- decided to wear darker clothes than usual. So he was wearing dark clothes in a white fog, and he stood out like a target in a background factory.

And, of everyone, It was Cinder, who spotted him first.

Though, while Mr S was far from well hidden, Melva, who’s eyes could see through the fog like air, was in prime position to choose her hiding spots, where the dust was thickest, and in prime position to choose her moment when she -- noticing Cinder’s distraction -- fired several shots at the back of the woman’s head.

It didn’t killer her, but it did cause a stumble and buy Mr. S enough time to make it around the corner before he tripped, and fell, and crawled back fearfully back from Cinder -- who’d clipped through the space in between them, rubbing the back of her head with one hand and stood over him, a ball of fire raised in the other.

“Wait!” Mr. S shouted, imploring her with kind a raised arm.

Cinder, surprising herself, actually paused, her growing rage inspiring the compliance.

And she slowed slightly, raising an eyebrow as she looked down at him with an expressively angry look.

“...Wait?” she mimicked with a biting tone. “Did you just ask me to wait?” she lowered her flame hand. “Are you insulting me? Are you playing a joke I can’t understand? Are you a child!? Is this what the great ‘Mr. Schnee’ has to say at the end of his life? ‘Wait’?...“Wait for what!?” She yelled. “Wait for your leaders to come back to their senses? Wait for your mistakes to stitch themselves back up? Wait for just a couple of seconds so that you can prolong your miserable life!?”

Mr. S felt that she was projecting a bit, but decided there was no harm in answering her.

“No,” he said, “wait for him.”

And he gestured at the completely innocuous man who’d been approaching them -- and who was now close enough to Cinder to throw a punch.

Again, it didn’t really harm her, but it did launch her across the alley, sending her barreling into the far wall and stunning her just long enough that, by the time she looked back up, there was nothing facing her but an empty alleyway.

* * *

The fight hadn’t lasted more than several seconds before it’s subjects dispersed, beating a hasty retreat out of her preferred element.

Outnumbered, Melva decided to stay in the rock dust, which hung, suspended, like a colloidal solution in the air.

Eventually satisfied that sufficient time had passed, she ventured around the corner, where the dust was thin enough to see by.

She paused and looked around herself.

“Melva!” She jumped, as she heard Mr. Schnee’s voice.

Now that was a surprise.

Melva looked around herself.

“Melva!” it came again.

“Where are you!” Melva asked, urgent. “And what are you doing here?”

“I’m standing behind McGarnagle,” he answered, “apparently he thinks it’s ok to trap people against a wall, and he hasn’t been very responsive.”

Now, that made sense.

“Yeah, he’s probably pretending to be a section of wall,” Melva answered. “Just give him a couple of moments, he should snap out of it.” Melva looked closely at the alley walls, trying to spot any discrepancies that might give away the pair, but quickly gave up the search.

“Where are the rest of them?” Mr. S asked. “Are they gone?”

“They’re gone,” Melva confirmed.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly, a small chip and a scroll leapt out at her, surprising her enough that she almost failed to catch them.

“What-?” she began.

“No time!” Mr. S said. “They’re planning to attack my security team! They’re going to be using an illusionist.”

“Where are they? Your security team.” Melva clarified.

“I’ve already unlocked my scroll, you should be able to see them on the map. My team’s going to be tracking that chip, and Raven’s going to be following my team!”

Melva didn’t waste any time; nodding, she took off. “Tell McGarnagle where I am when he wakes up!” she yelled back.

Melva left knowing it might be some time before Mr. Schnee could manage to talk McGarnagle out of his stupor.

He was like talking to a brick wall in that state.

* * *

Mr. S, however, had much more success than most in getting to McGarnagle.

How?

Well... let’s just say he had a few tricks up his sleeve.

“Open Sesame!” Mr. S yelled, his voice growing hoarse and his impatience sparking before, eventually, he just decided to push the man over, who fell, face planting, stiffly onto the floor.

Eventually, he managed to talk the man down to a more responsive state, managing in the intervening moments to come up with some very convincing excuses for himself.

…

“So, you’re out of aura?”

“Yes,” Mr. S smiled.

“You’d like an escort, then?” McGarnagle offered, following precise procedure for a potential murder victim, and unable to hide his derision and murderous anger.

“No, actually, I’d like you to go support my security team.” Mr. S answered, forcing himself away from the burning desire he felt to hug someone and refuse to let go.

McGarnagle nodded and left, hurrying to leave as much as to support his partner.

And Mr. S, now standing lost and alone in a collapsed alley, immediately regretted his decision. -- not least of which because there were two dead bodies accompanying him.

Mr. S looked around himself in a paranoid fashion, feeling the seconds tick by like hours as he sat on the ground, making himself small against the alley wall, alone in horrible anticipation.

“Come on, grow up,” he whispered to himself. Schwarz needed the backup more than he did. And the attackers couldn’t stay in this city for too long. They’d be off chasing after McGarnagle and Melvanova, who had the trackers, and he’d be safe here, far away from any of the fighting.

He’d be fine. He concluded decisively.

…

And, for no reason in particular, he felt the need to reassure himself, as a cold wind brought the smell of blood and exploded heads to his nostrils.

He’d be fine.

For you see, he was a needle in a haystack in this city. He was hiding in some random alley, sitting in the last place the enemy would think to look -- the last place they saw him!

He’d be fiiine. Totally, and completely, fine.

He spent the next several moments consoling himself with similar mantras until, in the silence of the alley, the worst thing happened.

He started to think.

You see, there were in fact three ways Schwarz and the security team had of tracking Mr. Schnee.

There was his scroll, of course, but that could be easily lost.

There was the tracking chip, which he kept on himself at all times.

There was, also, however, a smaller beacon, inserted into each of his teeth.

Because they were small, and because they often had to deal with the interference of being inserted into his body, they were far less precise than the other two options. And it was -- he consoled himself -- one option that had, according to Mr. Schnee, “never been used.”

In any event, they required specialized hardware to track, and Schwarz was unlikely to rely on them while the other two beacons were still active.

...

However, they would become the measure of last resort for whenever he was presumed to be dead. Because, in that case, the enamel trackers were the only one that could be trusted to be accurate.

But… he was alive.

And, there was probably no reason for Schwarz to assume he was dead.

After all, she’d only left him inside of an alley, with nine hunters, all of whom wanted him dead.

There was no way she’d be tracking the tooth beacons instead of the tracking chip. No way.

There was no chance at all that he’d just sent away the only two people who could provide support, and left himself alone, while his enemies and friends rushed to his location.

There was absolutely no reason for him to be worried about, or in fact, to believe, that, at this very moment, a large riot of super beings was making its way to his location, just after he’d left himself alone, and vulnerable, and huddling against the alley wall like a homeless man.

Besides, he consoled himself, if it came to it, he could just warn Schwarz not to approach by… calling her… with his scroll.

It took a heroic effort on Mr. S’s part to ignore the horrible dread that was now eating him up.

After all, he’d made all the right decisions, hadn’t he?

He’d acted rationally, and sent off support to his security team. He’d followed Mr. Schnee’s advice and considered the primary tracking devices first.

There was no universe cruel enough to do anything but reward him for such foresight and practicality, was there?

There was absolutely no way that he was about to be involved in a running fight with a bunch of super men, at least half of whom wanted him dead.

BOOM!

He jumped a bit, not from fright but from the sheer energy with which the ground rocked itself underneath him.

BOOM!

It was closer this time.

BOOM!

And it was speeding up, forming in a straight line, like an arrow pointed at his doom!

...

Now, Mr. S wasn’t running because he was at all worried.

He wasn’t worried at all.

Why would he be worried, considering that everything was going according to plan, and nothing was wrong?

Yeah, that made sense.

That made more sense than anything, lately.

* * *


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

* * *

The streets, having been given redundant heating units, were clear of snow and thus made for excellent running surfaces. And this one was no exception.

Bearing on its ice crusted surface the name “Main Street”, the sign greeted Mr. S as he ran apace, notifying him of his present location as he passed it. He hardly noticed it, what with the thundering rain that now poured about him, drenching the land in a bath so cool that Mr. S was left shivering underneath it. And, holy shit, was “cold” a gracious understatement when talking about Atas rains. He’d almost died when he first felt the light patters that had started it, only getting over it when he remembered that he’d actually die if he didn’t run. He’d been running in such a condition for several minutes at this point, perhaps ten, and he was… really out of breath. He was almost sorry that the hunters -- who's intermittent combats sparked violently in the distance behind him as the two groups sparred, separated, weighed each other, and then closed in again in order to lightly fence before, once again, separating -- hadn’t reached him yet. Almost. The running combat was a rather slow affair, really, which never ceased to not bore Mr. S, sending hot blood spiking into his shivering body whenever he imagined that they might be closing in on him.

The hunters, in fact, were not anywhere close to Mr. S. Schwarz, having written him off as dead, hardly looked at his location tracker after she’d noted his initial location, not expecting it to move and having hardly noticing its glacial migration across the track map as Mr. S ran for his life. So, she circled around, six guards flanking her in perfect repose as they moved across the rain-battered rooftops, seeming to float across the land, so brief were their irregular encounters with solid ground. Opposite them, Raven was a dark shadow with black hair waving in the speeding wind like a jagged banner; she mirrored Schwarz in the high distance, seeming opposed -- with her relatively grey team -- to the colorful sextet of guards that shadowed Schwarz, who herself was a parity of black against the seven colorful figures that streamed around Raven.

On the mean, they were about a half-mile apart, sometimes further and sometimes much, much closer.

Slowly the two groups danced around one another, decidedly opposing any mutual contact as they repelled and orbited around a common point which, over the course of their combat, roughly traced a path that led to Mr. S -- or at least to his last known position. Twilight sparkles burst into existence beside Schwarz, heralding the hyper-fast stream of jagged stone and masonry that followed, shooting off in a deadly stream aimed at the opposition.

Raven was notable for her calm, hardly moving her sword as she parried the twelve pieces of rubble that stood any chance of hitting her, and standing out against the unregarded scrambling of the people behind her. Schwarz wasn't watching Raven anymore, not too closely. She’d seen enough of her during their earlier encounters and she’d thoroughly cataloged the monstrous ease with which the woman had been able to deflect Sky and Ochre’s attacks, and she didn’t care to stand in awe of her any longer. No, Schwarz was entertained with her analysis of Torchwick, the last person to have garnered the full focus of her attention during these brief bouts of combat they’d been thrown into. At this point, running beautifully through her mind, was a model of every character in this game, and Schwarz knew all the winning moves.

Torchwick was all but discountable, and the invisible girl, as she’d termed Neo, wouldn’t be able to contend with her in an open fight; Schwarz deduced rapidly, letting her eyes flit across the enemy opposition for one last run through, and watching Raven even as she knew Raven, underneath that colorless mask of hers, was watching her. The rest of them were strong, too strong... to have come together naturally and still be this uncoordinated. Someone was behind this attack, who had forced or bribed their cooperation… but Schwarz would deal with that, later. For now, she resolved to take advantage of their main weakness, the rather numerous number of I’s that made up this team.

Again Schwarz and her guard, in coordination with each other, and rather like the breathing of some giant animal, stepped off from another set of buildings just as they landed on them. They managed this feat casually, despite the rather large distances that separated them, and the rather different heights of the builds they'd chosen as springpads. The other team, Schwarz could see, was rather more haphazard, not armature, but lacking that sense which put the last of them into the air a quarter of a second before the first. A quarter of a second could mean a lot in a battle, Schwarz noted with a dark tendency, though not without another grim reminder to herself of the recent death.

She didn’t focus on that, because Raven was there, focusing on her, focusing on her entire team with the same starting mentality that Schwarz had directed onto hers. And Schwarz could see, even through the curtains of rain, and not without some pride, that Raven was growing hesitant... less willing to engage in the mutual belligerency they’d contended to put each other through over the past several minutes. For, often, the battle was decided before it had begun, and Schwarz knew that she would be taking a victory. And, from the looks of it, Raven was thinking exactly the same thing.

Still, one question kept Schwarz back form rushing in: why had Raven engaged at all? After all, it wouldn’t have taken any great effort on her part to leave this city, a portal home was trivial. Did she have some other purpose yet unfulfilled? Did she perhaps have some secret strategy, one which she concealed behind her act of hesitancy?

That second explanation, though more correct than the first, was disregarding one option… that Mr. S had survived.

Of course, it was preposterous to believe that Mr. Schnee could have survived such an event. Trapped in an alley with eight hunters and a sensor, no creature on Remnant who wasn’t a maiden would have walked out alive.

And, perhaps that was correct, for, just two miles off to the north, Mr. S was running.

In the extreme focus she placed on observing Raven, on noticing all the weaknesses of the enemy, and all the opportunities placed before her, Schwarz did not, in all of her observations, notice the darkly colored spark that was Mr. S as he ran down Main Street -- visible for just a moment in between the hill of buildings that stood, prominently, on either side of the walkway.

Rather, it might be more accurate to say that Schwarz didn’t notice him _first_. No, that honor went to Raven who, to be fair, was actually looking for the man. Upon noticing him, Raven did not go chasing immediately after him, however. No, that would just be stupid. Why let the enemy know when you’ve found a mutual prize? Rather, she simply turned her head aside, and gave a nod.

Immediately, Erra took a position behind Emerald, placing a hand on the darker girl’s shoulders just as Emerald swooped to a stop atop one of the buildings, skidding plaintedly across the rain-drenched rooftop and raising her arms into the air with an almost religious reverence of posturing as she started to glow.

Off in the near distance, Schwarz as well as the rest of her team would see, just off to their left, Mr. Schnee, running fast due east.

Of course, Schwarz did not immediately go off to chase after the figure. That would just be stupid, of course. Why let the enemy know when you’ve found a mutual prize. No, instead, she gestured out her hands in a stilling order, keeping any of her teammates from making that popular mistake, and, turning her head aside to look at them, nodded.

Immediately, the switched gear, slowly making some convincing argument in their movements that forced Raven and her team away from their current location, where they might have any chance of seeing the fleeing figure.

Yet, despite her outward calm, Schwarz was nearly screaming and crying at the same time. To think he might have been alive! The thought overshadowed everything in her mind. So happy was she, that she didn’t even think to look at her tracker which, contrary to their popular belief, actually showed that Mr. S was on her right, moving north, at a paltry twelve miles per hour. And, of course, despite the curses she would later call upon herself, one must forgive Schwarz for this error. With almost any other human being, her training and stoic nature would have caught the trick immediately; however, with Mr. S, with whom she’d had a long and gray relationship that we shall recount later in the story, the matter of hope became something rather more difficult to set aside.

Of course he’s still alive, she chided herself, burying her more sensible doubts before they could gain any strength. It makes perfect sense! Why else would they have stuck around here if they’d succeeded?

So, she moved east, and Raven, in mirror to her, moved West.

Raven, of course, recognized the move as a sign that her trick had worked, that Emerald's illusion had deceived the enemy group, so she was free to now go now, and rush after Mr. S, and kill him… right?

And, perhaps, a lesser hunter might have done so. But, of course, Raven was not a lesser hunter. For one can not rely simply on semblances to sell an illusion, one must be wise, and one must be cunning, able to use all the wit and charm at one's disposal, even if they do not come out of having an aura.

In this case, the gift Raven decided to employ was an old one: acting. So she circled around herself, pretending not to know where Mr. Schnee really was, so that Schwarz wouldn’t catch on. In doing so, she let Schwarz think the illusion she saw was the real thing. Of course, in order to sell that illusion, Raven and the rest of her posse would have to play along with Schwarz’s act, until they were in such a position as to be able to kill Mr. Schnee without Schwarz’s interference. Make sense? Hope so, because Schwarz was thinking on much the same terms.

Because Schwarz, even though she knew, or rather, for perfectly understandable reasons, thought she knew that Mr. S was heading east, could not, by rushing off to support and guard him, allow her enemies to know that she knew where he was. For, by doing that, she would simply reveal his location to his enemies, and thereby do him more harm than good if she did this as a time when they were in a position to catch up to him before she could.

In summary, both sides were convinced they knew where Mr. S was, and both sides were equally motivated to get there, and neither side was willing to make a move to do so… not now, anyway, for that would be stupid.

Some have said that fights were like dances: two people working together to create a harmony of motion. The truth of that is still in debate.

What was in far less debate, however, was the proposition that fighting is, sometimes, like a work meeting: in that, everyone involved wants to leave, but everyone involved has to stick around for the customary five minutes until they allow themselves to do so.

This bought Mr. S some time, around five minutes in fact; and, in that time, when he noticed the lull in combat, and when his fears of its advance began to grow increasingly paranoid, he developed a plan.

And, just when he was in position to enact it, he noticed, by the rocketing flares that Raven had set off to hide their retreat, two hunters, barely like pin-pricks, flicking their way across the city like ravenous bullets in his direction.

That was terrifying. In fact, Mr. S decided right then that there was probably nothing more terrifying than seeing two hunters coming to kill you.

No warning, no ceremony, just death.

So, with spirited breath, he picked himself up, got into a good pace, and ran; but he ran with purpose, now that he’d developed a plan.

He had no hope of beating them in a race, of course. But he wouldn’t have to, for his plan accounted for that.

You see, his plan was plain and simple. Now that he knew he was on main street, having just passed the ice crusted sign saying so, he was also aware, from the impromptu tour he’d given just fifteen minutes ago, that he was near the former Schnee Dust Palace. Or, rather, he was near the crater that now stood where the former Schnee Dust Palace once formerly stood. And that crater was the center of his plans.

You see, his plan was simple. He would run over to the crater, which, as he could now see, was now only several dozen yards ahead, and he would slide down it’s inner surface down to its middle. There, he knew from studying the standard schematics of a Schnee dust palace, would be the main bunker door. In essence, this was the one feature that separated the vulnerable, upper sections of a palace, from the bunkered, protected, lower levels that held the majority of the dust store. And, this was also the one level, he hazarded to guess, that would have defined the limits that the explosion, as well as the resulting crater, reached.

So, there, once having slid to the bottom of it, he knew he would find lying, at the bottom of the crater, a thick, metal door lying on the ground and acting as a hatch to the inner recesses of the dust palace. There, he would crouch low and place his hand on the dust covered, though otherwise unharmed, surface of the door and, open sesame, he’d be in in a second! For the entire surface of the door could act as a fingerprint reader, and dust Stores -- as interests of national security -- were all, regardless of ownership, subject to be opened by the fingerprints of a short list of a few key figures…

And guess who was on that list! Yeah! Mr. Schnee! The dust man himself.

Yes!

Like all simple plans, this was idiot proof.

It was a confusing concoction of terrified elation that ran its way through Mr. S as he made his way to the dust crater, safe in the knowledge that he’d be able to reach the safety of the dust bunker before the dallying hunters could reach him.

Mr. S was not too-long confused, however, for he soon reached the edge of the crater and saw -- instead of the empty bowl he’d expected -- a small lake, who’s roiling, rain battered, surface now reached half way up the crater’s extent.

The dry -- well, drier -- parts of the crater were still covered in a web of abandoned construction equipment. And, much like the entire rest of the city had decided to do in the middle of this crisis, the workers had cleared out, leaving the pumps unmanned.

Mr. S, taking one look at said pumps, doubted they would be able to dredge the crater in the time he had. He weighed his options and counted his moments. Ten seconds, he gathered, looking down at the lake filled crater, he had about that long left to live if he didn’t do something.

So, Mr. S decided to slide down the crater wall anyway, for want of anything else to do and hoping to come up with a new plan on the way.

As he slid down the crater, Mr. S noticed the particular difficulty he was having of it. The crater, now slick with water and melting snow, was jagged with exposed rocks and crushed ice, and -- considering the blinding rain that crashed around him -- it was a wonder to Mr. S he didn’t fall flat on his face once during the entire, harrying ride down. It came as an even greater surprise when, rather deftly, he fell six feet down a precipitous cliff onto an unexpected flat spot, conducting a graceful stop onto his two feet.

Taking a moment to gather himself, he took in his surroundings. He was a quarter of the way down the crater wall, on a truck-sized stair-step that had been carved into the wall of the crater for the purpose of creating a circuit of flat land that would allow for the movement of heavy vehicles.

Below him, another quarter of the crater lay unsubmerged, leaving several lengths down to the half-way point. There, at the half-way point, he saw the lake -- it’s muddy surface covered by an effulgent mix of oil, mud, and hazardous chemicals -- and decided, after thinking about the depths he’d have to travel and his inability to breath water, that he’d have better chances against the hunters -- that is, to say, no chance.

But Mr. S was not an inactive protagonist and decided to take fate into his own hands and hide.

On his level, along the stair-step truck-path he’d fallen onto, there were various bits of scaffolding, steel risers, and abandoned construction equipment lying about. Plenty of good places for a darkly dressed gentleman such as himself to hide. And the rain had washed away most of the cement powder that had caked his body as well! Small miracles and gentle blessings, as some people, somewhere, presumably may have said.

Although, they were very, very gentle blessings that visited Mr. S, of late. And their cosmic counterparts didn’t seem to be pulling punches.

The rain picked up all the more, and lightning flashed dramatically above, not making Mr. S feel too great -- considering the steel rafter he’d decided to hide himself under.

And, as a hiding spot, it wasn’t too great, considering that, what it lacked for in walls, it made up with four, thin, wooden beams that held up the metal roof, which swayed and flexed violently in the storm winds, and set up a howling serenade as the winds flew over it’s unvarnished edges.

At this point, the two hunters Raven had sent after him, Mercury and Cinder, were very much, kind of, rushing on their way.

Well, rushing in a relative sense, perhaps, but two miles a minute was hardly rushing by anyone’s estimation of the word when dealing with hunters. But, come on, it was two miles. What? Were they supposed to flat out sprint the entire time?

Mercury didn’t care, and Cinder was wearing heels. Not to mention that Cinder, while she normally enjoyed this part of the job, was not too happy to be playing lackey for the sake of Torchwick's glory.

She’d still kill the mark, mind, but that didn’t mean she had to be happy about it.

And, when they were a quarter of the way to their destination Mr. S, star struck and, fortunately, still managing to avoid a similar fate with the lightning, came upon an idea.

He looked around himself. He saw the impromptu power generator, he could see the deactivated pumps, the forest of metal he’d hidden himself in was prominent, and he saw the abandoned bulldozer, with it’s key still in the ignition -- and beside it the equally abandoned crane, that was still running. He saw the surface of the lake beneath him and he saw the cake of snow, mud and ice that lined the entire surface of the crater around.

And, as he took all this information in, he thought hard about the potential avenues for escape, or at least for a negotiated surrender.

He shivered violently for about ten seconds straight, setting his body afire with violent motions as his teeth chattered.

Despite his running heart and spirited thoughts, he couldn’t help noticing, in the far back of his annoyed mind, how c-cold it was! He’d never known rain to be so cold! It was a wonder how the artificial atmosphere around Atlas could make him forget that he was in this world’s version of the arctic. Even now, as the heavy, water laden, rain clouds obscured all of the sky in their amassing darkness, it was impossible to forget the deep chill that stabbed into his bones.

He tried to think about an escape, or look for an alternative hiding spot, but another fresh jerk of shivers interrupted his body. His lungs seemed to protest at the cool air that numbed his jaws and set his fingers clumsy and aching.

Seriously, this water was too cold, It was probably well beyond its freezing point.

And that’s when the idea came!

Mr. S took out his gun. It was... supernaturally heavy in his tired hand. Although, it’s apparent weight was not all illusion, for it truly was a massive block of steel from the moment he’d first discovered it. It’s strangely high weight was, in fact, one of the main reasons he’d, at first, considered it to be ornamental. Now, he knew far better, of course. He knew that the gun indeed warranted its weight, for it fired at energies that one would hardly have seen in some light artillery back on earth. This thing was, in fact, a beast.

And he looked down at its glimmering, white surface -- at the slick, well maintained, sheen that covered it’s exterior.

Riére, he knew its name to be. And, out of curiosity, he’d even looked up the translation of it’s name. He laughed now, at that gotten knowledge, as he caressed the weapon’s surface. Truly a fitting name for a weapon, one that didn’t fail to present all the subtleties, and intrigue, and contradictions of its former master.

And, oh, how fitting that name now seemed, too, as he looked down at the heavy weapon in his hand, which was so central to his plans.

He wasn’t planning on firing it, of course. That would be ridiculous. No, he had a far more fitting fate planned for it. And it would have to come at precisely the right time... Then a sudden skidding noise above betrayed the harsh landing of the two hunters, several dozen feet away from the edge of the crater.

And that time was now! Mr. S decided, and he threw the weapon into the lake.

With great and strenuous effort, he threw it on a shallow arc, setting it to go as far away from his location as his strength allowed. And the gun landed like a cannonball, setting off a great splash and launching a short column of water several feet into the air. In a less mechanistic fashion, Mr. S would describe it as resembling either a small child doing a belly flop, or a large adult doing a dive.

Cinder and Mercury -- as they came across the edge of the crater and saw the large waves and splashes -- opted for the latter explanation. Quickly, they both slid down the crater wall like pros, vaulting completely over the truck path and heading down the second quarter to come to a graceful stop at the water’s edge.

“He’s in the water!” one of them yelled.

Through the rain, Mr. S couldn’t tell the gender of the voice. He could, however, tell the content. And he smiled.

He smiled because they thought he was in the water when he was, in fact, actually on land. The fools! How could they fall for such a simple ruse!

Of course, Mr. S was perfectly aware of how they fell for such a ruse, because he was cunning, and wise, as many people may have also attested. He knew that they thought he was in the lake because they saw the splash of his gun falling into the water. And, seeing this, they assumed that he’d, in crazed fear at having run out of aura -- why else would he have been running so slow when they saw him? -- jumped into the water in order to escape them.

But, of course, that was just what Mr. S _wanted_ them to think, hence why he threw his gun into the lake. For, by doing so, he could make them think he was in the water when, actually, he was, in fact, on land.

Wise, no?

Cunning, some might even say.

Tentatively, the hunters closed in to the edge of the lake, not willing to step a foot in it’s oil covered surface.

And, here, his plan came to a painful halt.

In his hand, Mr. S held the last thing left of his gun: a small, blue vial full of ice dust he’d taken out of one of the chambers before he discarded the weapon. And, in his fluttered imagination, he hoped, foolishly, that the pair of them might, upon thinking he’d jumped into the lake, go “Oh, no! He’s jumped into the water! Let’s go immediately diving in after him!”

After this bold proclamation, in a perfect world, they would both have jumped simultaneously into the water, at which point Mr. S would’ve set the vial to a grenade setting, thrown into the lake after them, and laughed as it froze them in.

He did not live in a perfect world, however, Mr. S was beginning to realize, and he resolved to instead maybe hide from them until the police arrived as he skulked just a bit deeper into his shadowy hovel, watching painfully as they stood inches away from the edge and fired into the surface of the water.

It was almost surreal, watching them. One of them was using a bow and arrow, for one, and the other had apparently mastered gun-fu high kicks.

On the bright side, neither of them seemed tempted to look back at the raised section of earth, several dozen feet above the lake’s surface, where Mr. S was hiding.

Again, gentle miracles.

Still, despite his currently sedentary disposition, Mr. S’s mind was whirring, the several near-death experiences and a hearty breakfast working to fuel it into magnificent peaks of genius.

His mind was aflame with thoughts, thinking at speeds that only MIT graduates -- and maybe some people from Harvard (As well as a lot of people out of Harvard, to be fair) -- could reach.

And, in his mind, despite everything, something was telling him not to give up hope. Something was telling him that he was on the precipice of victory.

Yes, yes, he could feel himself drawing closer to it.

And then, suddenly, Mr. S shivered violently once more, feeling the cold anew as a sudden blast of wind sent a wash of rain crashing into his hovel. He flinched back from the sensation, feeling the breath sucked from him, and nearly slipping on the muddy ground, which seemed to lack any solidity under the conditions.

Damn cold, rain.

Seriously, this water had to be at the trailing edge of it’s freezing point. Just on the trailing edge. Seriously, a dust particle could set this entire storm freezing!

And, this set off a tangent about science. Never let an engineer rest.

You see, it was a wonderful paradox that water’s freezing point was the same as it’s melting point. So, for example, water would freeze if you lowered it’s temperature to 0 degrees Celsius, and ice would melt if you raised its temperature to 0 degrees. Make sense?

The issue comes from the fact that, once water reaches its freezing point, you need to take away energy from it that doesn’t change its temperature but rather disputes the bonds that keep in a liquid state.

So, for example, imagine you have a mass of water at five degrees above it’s freezing point. This water would naturally be a liquid at appropriate pressures.

However, let’s say you take five hundred units of energy away from the water and lower it to it’s freezing point.

Well, this water would still be liquid. For, at this point, the water would still have only _just_ reached its freezing point. No, in order to turn the water into a solid, you would need to take away, say, another thousand units of energy. All throughout the process of taking away this thousand units of energy, the water would remain at zero degrees Celsius, losing its energy in other forms until, at last, it turned into a wonderful solid that was, you guessed it, still at zero degrees Celsius.

And, if water was very, very close to it's freezing point, well, then it wouldn't take much effort to freeze. Sometimes you'd even find entire bodies of water that froze upon contact with some impurity they could coalesce around.

This bit of knowledge was well known to Mr. S, and he ran through its familiar implications as an aside to his other, more pertinent, thoughts over the course of several milliseconds.

The mind is an enigma, however, and he hardly acknowledged this most important of thoughts when he, still readily running through the possible implications of the bulldozer and the pumps, suddenly came upon a related idea.

Slowly, his mind turned and tumbled as he worked his way through the glimmering possibilities, glancing his way around the central truth that first called at him to embark on this mental journey.

By now, several seconds had passed since the hunters started shooting, and they didn’t look to be on the verge of retreat, as they sunk themselves down into the slippery mud and set about shooting at whatever notable disturbances at the water’s surface caught their attention. This was ignoring the fact that the entire surface was being disturbed by heavy rain water, and that the most notable of these disturbances were caused by their projectiles.

And, looking at them, Mr. S suddenly smiled, for a brilliant notion had snuck up on his thoughts.

He smiled because he now fully accepted the capacity of his knowledge.

As the events of the past several minutes had taught him, Mr. S was ignorant about a lot of things: Human nature, political realities, business sense, and survival skills were among their number.

For all his failings, however, there was one thing that Mr. S was confident that he knew.

Here he looked down at the dust capsule that he held in his hand. He’d taken it from the ice chamber of his chambered weapon, and this dust capsule, this small part of Riére, somehow felt heavier than the whole. It was heavy with implications.

This small, dark cylinder, which was barely large enough to keep his fist from closing, and so hard it sucked the heat from his skin, was heavy as he, strugglingly, lifted it up to eye level. The hovel was battered with rain, and filled the space with loud, metallic drums that overlapped with each other. He noticed that his cold hands were shaking in time to the senseless rhythm. The discordant music egging him on like it was a triumphant fanfare. Taking his other hand, and forcing the chilled fingers to obey his commands, he gripped tightly onto the grooved end of the capsule, taking it’s rain-slicked surface in a hard hold. He twisted his wrist, forcing the tip of it to crank ominously with deep, hard clicks of warning that shook through his arm.

After he’d finished cranking the capsule, at the tip of it, a small, blue light blinked twice.

That was a short letter of warning, for such a portentous message.

For the lights, translated simply, went thus: “Touch me one more time, I dare you! I double dare you! I swear to the gods, I’ll kill us all!”

And Mr. S looked down from his vantage point, observing the still shooting pair. And, struggling against all that meaningful weight the small object seemed to carry, he threw it into the air on a high trajectory, his elevated position allowing it to travel a great distance before it rapidly descended downward, heading toward the rapidly boiling, bullet-riddled surface of the lake top.

He’d missed the hunters by a good mark, overshooting them by about a hundred feet. A forensic investigation would reveal that even he, in his aura-drained state, had no right to make such a mistake.

But Mr. S hadn’t made a mistake. He’d overshot on purpose, for he was wise, and he was cunning.

Because, returning to our earlier point, we’ll recall that there were a great many things that Mr. S did not know, and a few things that he did. Among them, were some particular facts about the natural sciences.

And he knew -- as he looked down at the hunters, who were inches away from the lake front -- that water expanded when it froze.

* * *

Raven had, in the end, decided against going herself to deal with the Schnee situation. Schwarz was watching her closely despite her best efforts to keep her harried, and any glance of hers towards main street was a potential give away. So, Raven kept her attention focused on the fight.

Of course it wasn’t particularly difficult for her to do this, because, as she calmly parried a bullet, following it with a, rapidly performed, “Oh-Shit” parry on a streaming piece of stone that was moving so fast it was glowing. All around her, similarly sized stones cracked past her former positions, passing a hair’s breads from the limit of her figure. One of them clanged painfully against her scabbard, setting some of her dust vials spilling gently into the air.

Raven had... been put in an interesting conundrum.

To go deal with Schnee herself was a no go, as that would have tipped off Schwarz. To send the entire team would have been even worse. So, that left her in the unenviable position of picking drafts.

But, who would she send?

Emerald and Erra had to stay, for obvious reasons.

Torchwick and Neo, she wouldn’t have been too sad to lose, as they were mainly dead weight in this kind of altercation. Well, maybe not Neo, she assessed, as she watched the smaller woman almost roaring in silence as she blocked another stream of stone projectiles.

Still, the fact they were dead weight also impugned on her confidence that they would be able to handle Jaques in a timely fashion. Killing was a lot harder than staying alive, after all, and this was an assasination that had to be done quickly, as dallying would no doubt tell Schwarz the obvious.

Salem’s threats hung heavily over Raven: Mr. Schnee would have to die… or else… Salem would kill Raven… and everyone she knew… violently… to death… and destroy their graves… after giving them cheap funerals.

As eccentrically as the threat had been delivered, it was seriously received. And, with a heavy heart, Raven watched as her two favored chess pieces slipped away from a battle they were already on the verge of losing.

Emerald and Erra she couldn’t send. Torchwick and Neo she would’ve like to send, but couldn’t. And Tyrian… well… no.

Still, she couldn’t help second guessing herself as Cinder and Mercury departed, carrying with them fully half the power of the fall maiden, and of one of their strongest fighters.

Raven looked over at Emerald, guarded behind her and suffering headaches from her earlier exertion. And she looked ahead and saw the coming group. And Raven really started hating her odds.

Still, those odds couldn’t be bad enough to risk not sending someone competent after the main mission.

* * *

Truly Raven had underestimated them; which was a feat, considering her first estimation had been that they were some of the strongest hunters she’d ever seen. Really, the way things were going, Raven was sure she should have known them by name if they were individually this dangerous, and she considered herself a knowledgeable person when it came to hunters.

Taking a moment, she ran eye eyes across the assorted opposition. They were all conspicuous, wearing very colorful outfits. Neon pinks and bright yellows marched in step alongside brilliant violets and… even a rainbow outfit.

Yeah, even before looking at their faces, Raven knew they were of the younger generation. And that went some way to explaining their mystery to her. Seriously, recuse yourself from society for just twenty years…

Well, Raven was cursing herself for her ignorance, now, because Tyrian was dead, and everyone on her side was rapidly trying to avoid his fate.

Coming back to the present, after another series of desperate parries, Raven cursed as Neo bumped into her side.

“Keep in line!” she yelled at the smaller woman, shoving her away.

Although Raven had trouble truly blaming her, considering the sudden and conspicuous lack of habitable space as Schwarz closed in with two wings of guards, and filled the city skies with hazardous projectiles.

The group was still about a sixteenth of a mile away, never having drawn closer since Cinder and Mercury had left off. Always, it seemed their true intentions lay elsewhere, though Raven wasn’t above helping that process.

Stealthily, Raven sent another nod off to Emerald, who, taking Erra’s hand, set off another light display. And the pressure eased as Schwarz, presumably, saw something that caused her to be slightly less interested in them, and slightly more interested in whatever rabbit Emerald had them chasing. Emerald soon shut off the illusion, seeming sick.

Tiredly, Raven slumped, drifting back and forming a bit of buffer distance between their two groups, just waiting now for this, next, interspersed moment of calm to pass before they were, once again, forced to hunker down against impossible odds.

But, Raven relied still on her always obvious optimism to see her through. This arrangement with Emerald was obviously only a temporary solution. Cinder and Mercury would be back soon and, with them, Raven could even up the odds enough to create a portal.

That was the plan. Simple and idiot proof. And, man, was she working with a bunch of idiots.

Raven, as that last sentiment would reveal, did not exactly have the highest respect for her coworkers.

And she was about to lose what little respect she did have, as the next kink in her plan revealed itself.

PWFOOOOOO!

A cool wind washed over the land, rippling visibly through the torrents of rain it exacerbated.

Raven turned immediately to its source, hackles raised against the news.

Somewhere behind her and to the left, the crater went off like a volcano, and a column of snow and ice exploded into the air, flooding the city with wind as a tree of snow diffused against the boundaries of the artificial atmosphere.

It was a popular fact that Jaques Schnee’s semblance was temperature projection. More popularly: he made ice -- often even showing off his ice sculptures on public occasions. This led to many punny newspaper titles involving his moniker. It also set up innumerable, hilarious misunderstandings whenever his name was mentioned in a sit-com.

To Raven, however, it only led to the understanding of one thing: Cinder and Mercury wouldn’t be coming back for them.

Clack, clack... crack.. crack crack.

The metal roof above him was dented and ringing from the intermittent impacts. The noise seemed louder against the thick-set fog that now filled the world around him, revealing nothing but the wooden supports that held the roof up.

And Mr. S's skin was burning! Like he'd held his hand in a candle, and wasn't allowed to take it away.

Mr. S forced himself to stay underneath the protective, metal roof of his little hovel until all the dangerous debris came raining down, and no longer. For, as soon as he thought it remotely safe, he scrambled deliriously up the stair-step wall, and ran along gently sloping sides of the crater, clawing his way up the ice and ice covered sides in the extreme fog that now blanketed the space, skin chittering from the supreme coldness that permeated the space.

And to think, these were only the ancillary effects of the actual explosion! The real show, Mr. S knew, lay below, where the surface of the freezing water had suddenly risen ten or so feet before transforming into an iceberg.

He could see very little in the sudden fog, and he could feel even less of the icy ground which, thankfully, had frozen into irregular and jagged patterns that easily allowed Mr. S to drive himself up the crater with running kicks. He even wondered at one point if he still had a body. The pain of cold -- so cold that it burned -- had so deeply entrenched itself, that it seemed now to lack contrast with anything else, and almost disappeared from his awareness.

Wait!

Up there!

He could see the fog lightening! All the while, as his eyes looked up, his body scrambled forward relentlessly, driving him incessantly upward until...

Ah!

The shitty Atlas rain was like a hot bath against his skin when he finally, fortuitously made out onto the surface.

Oh! What a wonder to be alive!

Schwarz and Raven, seeing the explosion, and looking into each other's eyes, both immediately understood that Schwarz knew about the trickery afoot, and that Raven knew that Schwarz knew about the trickery afoot.

Therefore, the trickery, upon being discovered, was no longer afoot, thereby freeing them from the act they’d been playing.

And, looking into each other's eyes, mid leap, they both seemed to hang in the heavy moment, rain drops hovering around them until, for both of them, normal time came back into play, and they both scrambled straight for crater.

As hunters, they both naturally had a preference for keeping their quick reaction times and, in service of this, never lifted off higher than several inches above the nearest sold surface during the course of all their various jockeying.

This their patterned combat set them on shallow ballistic arcs as they weaved and drifted past each other and the city. And this habit they maintained, as they, all of them, rushed over the Atlas roof tops like a great tidal wave, falling across the descending roofs of the industrial district towards the common center of their gravity: Mr. S.

And despite the startling lack of verticality in the movements, Mr. S had little trouble noticing them as they shot their way over to him.

And, immediately, he recanted his earlier conviction. There, indeed, was in fact something more terrifying than seeing two hunters headed for your location. It was exactly six times more terrifying, in fact.

The crater seemed to beckon to Mr. S as an adequate hiding place, waving at him with soft, frosty arms of ethereal cloud matter.

Yeah no.

Mr. S looked around himself for another suitable hiding place and saw… several hundred yards of very flat land. Yeah, craters were often surrounded by those.

So, Mr. S ran, aiming his trajectory towards the edge of the main carnage, where several large buildings remained standing.

Schwarz and Raven, while further away, initially, than Cinder and Mercury had been when they went after Mr. S, more than made up for it with their maniac pace.

Mr. S was running with renewed energy towards the shelter of the remnants of the industrial district, and Schwarz and Raven, leading their vanguards, were gaining on him.

The first buildings he passed without incident, the abandoned streets doing little to hinder his view of the surrounding hiding spots.

He’d just reached the open mouth of an alley when they closed in on him, and Mr. S suddenly became the center point for a whirling, half sphere of violence that teetered above the ground.

To Mr. S, the noise was horrible and indiscernible, crashing through the raindrops and crashing into his body. Instinctively, his mind screamed at him to collapse down onto the floor, away from the shadowy movements that flitted across the edges of his vision, to shut his eyes so that he didn’t have to look at it! His body was not a faithful servant of his mind, however, and would not move. Merely, he looked up in awe, unable to turn away from the sight. Above, on a building, a large corner of steel, in seconds, ground itself down from the thousand cuts and hundred blades that had run their way into it’s body.

Mr. S walked back further into the alley, the half-sphere following him in as the wind picked up and he looked around himself with paranoid suspicion, feeling for all the world a if he were walking on a tightrope.

SCHIING!

A sudden, horrible noise like a, giant blade being drawn assaulted his senses. Mr. S had been standing next to a large section of exposed truss and, looking to the side at it, he could see now that it was wobbling like a guitar string. There in the lower quarter, six inches away from his neck, a bent, jagged path had been cut straight through the steel. The wound was steaming in the rain and sending a blood warm spittle of water raining onto him.

Suddenly Schwarz appeared next to him, blocking… something with a sharp swing of her blade. Whatever it was, it certainly sounded dangerous from the sharp ring it elicited from the black steel of her short blades.

Raising an arm straight and holding her sword out, Schwarz shot out a cone of ice at the opposition.

Suddenly, speaking too quickly for him to register, she barked out some command, and they were suddenly engulfed in a bubble of wrathful noise. Mr. S at first, shrank from it, but then noticed the flickering wall of bodies that circled around him were in fact protecting him against the outside forces. The battle still raged outside where, with a maniac laugh, Pinkamena -- never seeming to be in fewer than two places at once -- set up a solo combat display as, beside her, violet beams and blurring, blue figures combated their enemies.

And, measuring its pace of the battle with all the disinterest of a professional doctor, Schwarz stood steadily next to Mr. S, looking about with fierce eyes while, above her, a sharp hexagon of light slowly circled. And the space surrounding seemed sufficed with it’s dark light, tinting the air black as the combatants circled and twirled within it.

At every second beat or so, the slowly rotating hexagon would accelerate and, in their measure, the hunters in the dark space would accelerate as well. The people, both enemy and friendly, would speed up, noticeable to Mr. S by a slight increase in the pitching whirr of battle that went on outside.

And, at random intervals following, the hexagon would slow to a crawl, and the people inside would slow as well, becoming almost visible to Mr. S, their jumps never seeming to take them to such fantastic heights as before.

The enemy, he noticed, never seemed to adapt as well to the changes.

And he also noticed, in the brief intervals when they slowed down enough to be perceptible, that his side was winning!

Or rather, it was winning, until it wasn’t.

Suddenly, the front collapsed, and Mr. S jumped back the several length’s he’d left between himself and the far alley wall, pressing back against it.

Trapping him and Schwarz between three walls, a group of advancing enemy figures. His guard was disciplined, however, though not suicidal, as they screeched back to the end of the alley, creating a small bubble of safety as he and Schwarz pressed further back against the wall.

Near the other end of the alley, standing atop the roof of a building, Mr. S noticed a hunter that was standing still.

Granted, that was the only kind of hunter he’d be able to notice, but still.

And, seeing her, he recalled something of the enemy’s earlier plans. “Emerald”, the girl was called, was supposed to create an illusion that would demoralize his team, and allow the bad guys to kill them.

Now, he wasn’t sure which one of the people on the other side was “Emerald,” but he felt he had a pretty safe bet that it was the girl with emerald hair, with an emerald aura shining around her, and holding up two emerald scythes like she was posing for the third frame of the Arch-Vile’s attack animation.

Yeah, that was probably Emerald, he decided. And she was probably the girl who’d caused such a ruckus among his security team.

“Mr. Schnee!” Schwarz gripped tightly onto his sleeve, shouting at him through the rain. “We have to jump out of here!” Schwarz shouted through the thunder of rain that fell around them, delirious with contained panic. “The fire-!”

“There is no fire!” Mr. S interrupted her, yelling to be heard through the confusion and gripping her tightly by the shoulders as he mentally begged her not to rip his arms off.

“Wh- wha-”

“There!” He pointed distinctly at the far building where Emerald stood. “Extend your semblance until it encompasses that building!”

Schwarz, with all the trained experience of a soldier, immediately obeyed, filling the space in between them in a flash.

And, despite the sudden darkening of the space, Schwarz’s expression was all enlightenment as she paused, and smirked, and looked very dangerously at the distant Emerald, who looked suddenly weakened.

The switching accelerations trick was lost to them for the next bout of combat, for Schwarz worked to constantly depress Emerald’s capabilities. The fight however, was no less unbalanced for it, and soon Raven, Torchwick, Emerald, Neo and Erra were crowded into the center of the alley, skipping back from the sudden whirl of violence that corralled them into their invisible confines.

Schwarz and her security team were in a familiar state now, merely handing off responsibility between themselves as they positioned their enemies, positioned themselves, and, at an invisible moment, all together, worked to charge their final attacks.

Schwarz remained in front of Mr. S, strictly defensive.

Pinkamena, standing on a roof and guarding the alley entrance, hooked back the firing mechanism of her hand Cannon, feeling the weapon warm in her hands as several loads of dust reveled in its breech.

Twilight charged a violet beam, its width spanning two human chests as it floated weightlessly in front of her outstretched arm, her other hand holding stiffly a lacquered narwhal horn.

Sky held out her two fan-wings folded in front of her, glowing cyan with tornadic flurries, as thick lightning cracked between them.

Haetzen held out a bright yellow ball of her namesake.

Ochre readied a grenade.

And Beryl held, floating just above her head, a gleaming crystal that diffracted with radiant energies, patterning her white coat with its rainbow orchestra.

Raven, as she felt the rest of her group huddle against her for instinctive safety, felt a small laugh coming on.

She looked at the “oh so triumphant” group, and smirked cooly with that dark sense of humor that had seen her through her better days.

She wasn’t laughing at them, no.

She laughed at herself, because she remembered all the heartache she’d experienced several days ago, when she feared that, somehow, impossibly, Mr. Schnee had figured out her identity as the Spring Maiden. That was a secret Raven had worked hard to keep, and she was proud to have passed by Salem’s eyes while still having kept it. So, it was funny to her, all those nights of sleep she’d lost at the thought that this… surprisingly dangerous, man had managed to figure out her secret.

Of course, she felt no need to worry now, because it was obvious that he didn’t know her status. For, if he did know that she was the spring maiden, if he had even the slightest inkling of her power, she sincerely doubted he would have allowed his security team to push her into this corner.

And, what a conundrum it was, they’d pushed her into. She didn’t want to die, and she also didn’t want to reveal herself as the Spring maiden.

The solution was obvious: reveal herself as the Spring Maiden, and kill all the witnesses. She’d start with Mr. Schnee himself; that would get Salem off her back, at least. From there, she’d kill the entire security team in one fell swoop, and then she’d turn on Torchwick and the rest of Salem’s lackeys. Salem would have to believe that they died in the fighting.

After the carnage, Raven planned to leave with Erra in tow, content to leave this alley as a mystery of red splatters to any investigators.

Still, primarily, her feelings were mirthful. To think she’d honestly suspected Mr. Schnee, of all people, of having figured her out!

Hilarious!

It was obvious, now, that he didn’t know of course.

The respective elements charged up their attacks and Raven put a hand on her phantom sword.

It was obvious that he didn’t know because, if he did... if he knew what he was up against, it would at around this time that he would-

“Stop!!” Mr. S yelled suddenly, voice growing hoarse as he forced the order. And, it was a great testament to the discipline of Mr. Schnee’s security team that they managed to follow it.

Pinkamena stopped, hand half cranked across the firing mechanism as she looked at him, confused. Twilight, below her in the alley, sent a small, sideways glance over at the man, keeping the brunt of her attention focused on the floating ball of violet she held out in front of her with gestures of her delicate fingers.

The rest of the alley was filled with similar gestures of surprise and confusion, even from those of his enemies.

Raven’s eyes, however, were filled with horrible understanding. He knew. The proclamation weighed on her gut like a weighty iron. And, looking into his eyes, and the bargaining note that seemed to be growing in them, Raven knew that it was likely that others knew as well, already, and that her worst nightmares had come true.

For Mr. S the entire situation was far less complicated.

You see, he merely saw and understood, in the brief moment the elements had taken to charge up their respective attacks, that this alley he was in was about to become the future sight of an impending explosion.

Mr. S, being an MIT grad rocket scientist, understood that explosions, unlike in the movies, were actually quite dangerous.

And here he was, with all the relative consistency of wet tissue paper, as several hunters prepared to turn this alley into an over sized pop gun.

So, he decided to put a stop to it, putting on a strong face and his best bargaining tone.

“Uh hum,” he coughed, readying his voice to be heard over the rain. “We will allow you to leave here alive!” Mr. S said. “That is, if you leave now!”

Now, of course, the first thing they taught you in combat school for personnel specialists was, of course, to never question your commander in the face of your enemy. It would be bad form to show disunity at such a critical moment, after all. And this lesson was treated and retreaded all throughout the curriculum of the school. So, it was a monumental achievement on Mr. S’s part, that he actually managed to get such a dedicated security team to question breaking it on his first day.

Still, they didn’t, in the end, lose discipline.

Raven did not waste any time in creating her portal and walking through. The rest of her team swiftly followed suit. The Portal, as soon as the last of them had passed through, unceremoniously closed on the whole affair.

And that was that.

And left in the alley, was Mr. S and his security team. Naturally, in all of their eyes was a deep questioning as they turned to lock gazes with Mr. S. Even Schwarz’s excitement to see him alive seemed marred by it. Mr. S looked at his security team, with a fretful expression. Unfortunately, he knew too much about aura to say he was out of it. An experienced hunter, he’d calculated, would laugh off an explosion that was ten feet away, even if he was running on dregs.

Though, for once, the excuse seemed to deliver itself as, with a light cough, a whole busload of Orphans, as well as their accompanying nun, walked out of the nearby, “abandoned” building that formed the left wall of the alley.

Schwarz’s questioning look was instantly replaced by one of surprise.

“You…” she stared back at the orphans and then back at Mr. S, “You knew they were there!” she said.

“How?” a soft voice came from the side. It was Haetzen, as he recognized her from the employee files. She was dressed, as always, in her yellow turtleneck, and hiding behind the long main of pink hair that dangled down her front. “Even I didn’t notice them… in the battle. And… well, I like to think I have a good sense for that kind of thing.”

And, despite her subdued tone, Mr. S could easily sense that she was filled with awe.

Looking at them, he noticed that they all were!

“Well,” he began, laughing lightly, “It’s always important to keep up your awareness in the middle of combat,” trying to side step any inevitable questions like:

“But, how did you notice them when they were hidden inside of a building?” That was Hatzen again, growing bolder in her questions as she lifted up two, sleeved hands up to her chest.

“Oh, it was a simple matter of deduction,” Mr. S answered simply, his mind blazing through all the lies. “For one, the entire city was in shelter, and this very street was brimming with people just twenty minutes ago, so it was natural to assume that they may, some of them, have been hiding here for lack of proximity to proper shelter.”

“Yes,” Hatzen nodded, smiling with entranced respect up at the man. “But, you knew there were people in exactly that building, right? You wouldn't have let the world’s most dangerous terrorists go otherwise!” All of this, Hatzen asked with the most innocent and innocuous expression and feeling. Often, innocence was the only thing willing to push such matters, because it honestly believe it wouldn’t be finding anything bad by doing so.

And Mr. S went full tilt. “Well, of course not!” he said, sweating in the rain. “I knew they were here all along! Because… for one,” he said, looking carefully around in the sudden calm, “you’ll notice that this entire street has been covered by soot from last light’s explosion, the lighter areas indicate high foot traffic.”

The team, all at once, looked over to the street to see a startling lack of soot anywhere. Curious, they walked out of the alley, with Schwarz and Mr. S following, and got a better look at the street. Again, there was no soot on the path leading to the building, but there was no soot anywhere else either.

“There’s no soot,” Pinkamena said, face dejected like a saddened dog.

“Yes,” Mr. S nodded, agreeing. “But, there was soot here before the rain washed it away. And this building was the first building from the explosion site to have evidence of significant foot traffic. Therefore, not only was it likely that people would use it for shelter, it was probably -- as the first functional building in this area --very likely to be used as a shelter.”

This part, to Mr. S’s credit, actually was true. He’d taken idle note of it during his earlier vacation through the city.

And it seemed, for a second, that his team had accepted that, until Hatzen, once again, broke the silence with her brash innocence. “But… surely every buiding at a similar radius has the same status?” Hatzen said.

And, her continued questioning seemed to embolden the rest of them. And Twilight spoke. “Not to mention, we did just let the people who led the attack on Vale escape.”

“Yeah,” Sky pushed in. “I mean, this does seem pretty unbelievable, that you’d let them go over something with so little evidence.”

“That’s because you haven’t let me finish!” Mr. S threw out his hands in frustration, splattering rain drops in every direction. “You must understand, at the pace of the battle, I had to first build my deductions upon a probable basis! The true evidence for my final conclusion came later! Obviously, I wouldn’t have let them go unless I was absolutely sure that there was someone in this building that could be harmed by our explosion!”

And, rather than talk about it, Mr. S suddenly trailed off into a quiet silence.

“Well?” Hatzen asked quietly.

“Well what?” Mr. S said.

“Where’s the evidence that showed you there were people in that building?” Sky asked, pointing at the building.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Mr. S asked, increduled past necessity. “I mean, I thought you’d notice once we came out onto the street.”

They all looked at each other and then looked back at him, apparently deciding together that they didn’t.

“I’m afraid I’m rather lost in the matter,” Beryl said, whipping a strand of wet hair behind her head, and looking quickly at the rainwater that drenched her coat. “I’ve never been one to foray in detective work.”

“I’d tend to agree, sir,” Schwarz said.

“Um… me neither.” Hatzen raised her hand.

And, in all of this, there was no suspicion in any of their words, merely curiosity. Still, even now, it seemed, they were waiting for him to furnish them with a completely satisfying explanation for why he’d known that there were orphans in that building.

Here, Mr. S was at a crossroads. He could either simply reveal his true nature as an imposter, as explanation for why he’d called off the explosive finale to their fight, or, alternatively, panic and lie.

Mr. S defaulted to the obvious, and, flitting his attention at his surroundings, smiled triumphantly as he saw something that he was looking for.

“Ah ha!” he said, pointing, by way of explanation, at the door that the nun and her orphans had walked out of. “That door has a rain guard!”

They all looked at the door, even the nun and her orphans turning back to look at it, and all of them acknowledged that it indeed had a rain guard.

“Ok, so?” Sky asked, raising an eyebrow.

“And there’s also water inside the building,” Mr. S nodded impatiently.

Again, they all looked and confirmed the water that pooled just inside the doorway, before turning to look back at him with questioning looks.

“Water, that could only have been tracked in by people seeking shelter! The rain only started after the attack, and no one was likely to be doing any travel while the city was on lockdown!”

“OH!” A look of understanding and wonderment seemed to go over his team before it was cut short by the nun, who spoke in her stiff, parochial tones.

“But, if you’ll allow me to say,” the nun started, letting out a small cough, “the door was closed when you were still having your combat. We only just opened it to come out here once we knew you were victorious. There’s no way you could have seen the water that was inside.”

The looks of understanding were quickly replaced by ones of confoundment, as the team turned to look back at Mr. S.

Yeah, how did you know? They seemed to ask.

But Mr. S was one step ahead of them.

“If you’d be patient and stop interrupting me, I’d show you,” he said, walking his way over to the door.

His team followed and the nun and her orphanage steeped to the side to observe him.

Here, Mr. S crouched low and pointed to the bottom of the door, where a line of rubber weatherstripping hung down from the door to make contact with the ground. Mr. S pointed at the sweeper, and at the sheen of liquid that was painted over it.

“Here,” he said. “The weatherstripping. It obviously passed through some water as the nun and the orphans closed it. From there, I was able to deduce that someone had obviously treaded rainwater into this building, and from there the natural.”

Again, an even more astounded look of amazement and respect passed over everyone, even the nun, as they all looked at him with reverential spirits. “Patron of orphans,” even seemed on the verge of possibly slipping from their lips as an appropriate moniker.

The children, however, were far less impressed. One of them even spoke up, dashing all hopes.

“Yeah, but every house has those,” a short girl with a bored look pointed out, her blonde locks handing heavily around her youthful face.

“What?”

“Every house has some water on its door.” the girl answered. “People are always trudging snow melt into their houses. Not to mention, there was a snow storm last night. I mean, look,” she pointed behind her at one of the houses across the street. And, as she said it, a bright gleam of liquid painted the bottom of its door.

Immediately, everyone seemed to come to their senses, and started to look at Mr. S.

Again, there was no suspicion, only curiosity. And, Mr. S knew he was far past being able to play this off as a mistake. As far as they were concerned, he was an expert hunter, able to pay such meticulous attention to every detail, even when he was running on the dregs of his aura.

“Well, obviously,” Mr. S said, looking at the orphan girl with poison. “But…” and here he was glad for the liquid cooling the rain provided, because his brain was overclocking, “... you’ll remember,” he began, “that I said this,” he pointed at the near door’s weather stripping, “was evidence of _rain_ water and…”

And Mr. S noticed something. Something that could-

...no, something that _would_ save him! He was saved! Yeah!

“...and you’ll notice that the water on the other door is gleaming!” he said, pointing triumphantly at the same door, across the street, that the girl had pointed to.

They looked at the door, and then looked back at Mr. S, where he then regarded their attention to the near door.

“This door, on the other hand, has muddy, soot laden water. Likely, they ran in here soon after the rain started, meaning that they were tracking in water that was heavily mixed with the previous soot. And this kind of water is discernible from snow melt by its characteristic lack of a sheen!”

And, looking at the door, they all had to agree that it was discernible.

Mr. S barely held himself back from clapping and going, “YES!” with a triumphal fist pump. Instead, he stood calmly up in the rain, brushing some water off of himself as he walked back to his team.

He was confident now, and they all looked at him with an awe that superseded completely everything they might have imagined about the man before.

Hatzen, again, was the first one to break her silence.

“You.. you really figured that all out by noticing the door water?” Hatzen asked, breathless with anticipation.

“Naturally,” Mr. S said with sublime confidence, folding his arm behind his back and pacing. “Upon seeing the slight darkening of the water at the foot of the door, it was natural to assume that it had been tracked through some muddy, or otherwise impure substance. And soot laden water came to mind. So, running through the possibilities, I immediately sensed that the rains, upon first starting, must have driven up the explosive soot that formerly covered these here streets. And, for a brief few minutes, before further rains diluted the concoction, these streets must have been filled with a water of a not dissimilar consistency!”

“And, remember, the rains only started after the attack,” Hatzen breathlessly put herself in, looking gleefully up at Mr. S while directing the statement to her companions in explanation.

“Yes,” Mr. S agreed, smiling blissfully as he paced back and forth before the assorted horde of orphan children. “And from there, it was a simple matter to deduce that this building must indeed be inhabited by sheltering civilians.” He gestured casually at the building. “Really,” Mr. S said, looking at the yellow covered girl, “the facts assembled beautifully to relay this story. And, for anyone experienced in reading those facts, uncovering the hidden truth was... elementary, my dear Hatzen!”

* * *


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34**

* * *

The nun, upon seeing his heroic actions and wherewithal, had knelt down in front of him, and earnestly took his hands in hers.

“What is your name?” she asked, “to name an orphanage after,” she clarified.

And, gladly, Mr. S gave it. I mean, who, if not him, deserved to have an orphanage named after him.

And, upon hearing it, the nun’s expression immediately went cold.

“Oh…” she said, with a disappointed tone that said he probably wasn’t going to be getting the Jacques Schnee orphanage off the ground any time soon.

Apparently, she hadn’t recognized him at first, what with all the rain and the slightly darker clothes he was wearing.

Then, of course, Winter floated down from on high, riding an ice tornado and keeping the rain off of herself with wind gusts.

The nun promptly took this moment to leave the awkward situation, shepherding along her line of orphans along ahead of her.

Winter, in her own due, sheperded Mr. S and his security team up to the manor.

The air-lift, as it had gone, was nowhere to be seen.

Everything that had happened before seemed done in a past time, devoid of any personality.

And, as Mr. S walked through the abandoned streets and trudged through the silent city, he quickly felt his spirits begin to fall.

The rain hadn’t stopped, it hadn’t even slowed.

Schwarz was ecstatic that he wasn’t dead. And, he guessed he was happy with the outcome, too. But, for whatever reason, his heart was too sick and bitter to take any enjoyment in the matter. Honestly, the further he seemed to get from the alley, the more scared he seemed to grow. By the time he’d reached the edge of the plain, grassy lawn that demarcated the edge of the Schnee Manor property, Mr. S was all too glad to get out of the city; every dark alley and random noise that he’d passed there had set his heart thundering and his whole attention twitching to the source of his troubles. By the time he’d gone halfway onto the grass park, which was now empty of protestors due to the recent excitements, it was all he could do to keep the shaking in his hands from becoming apparent.

As the highs from his recent activity wore off, the world seemed stark and depth-less as he looked around it with uncoordinated motions.

By now, his eyes were blinking unnaturally, and he and his group were silently cresting the gradual hill that supported the Schnee Manor, which stood shining against the dark background that the rainy sky presented. The outer walls and their white facade, recently clear of the police tents, were flashing every so often, in time with the lightning strikes who’s thunder Mr. S failed to hear.

Linked atop the palisades, several, heavy turrets stood watch like mechanical sentries, uncaring of the rain or of anything of the outside world except potential targets. Suddenly, all in unison, several of the forward turrets swived to face a point several dozen yards behind Mr. S who, shaken by the motion and the sudden onset of a heart attack, turned rapidly to face whatever it was they were pointing towards.

There, behind the sudden wall of security that formed to stop them, team RWBY stood, silent and sulking in the rain.

Yang stood a bit off behind them, staying a respectful distance away.

Mr. S, comforted by the harsh assurance of the turrets, as well as the ignominious retreat of his would-be killers, and the comforting presence of the Winter Maiden, allowed them to step closer. Though, not too much closer.

Team RWBY complied, presenting Weiss, who stood at the head of them, as their formal ambassador.

She looked up at him with a still figure, hands held at her sides as if chained there, and flashing intermittently white, in time with the lighting walls of the castle behind.

“Father,” she said, deftly keeping all emotion from her voice

Ok, he could play this game.

“Weiss,” he nodded pointedly at the girl, unable to raise his hoarse voice above a soft whisper.

Through the motion of his head, he discovered, at least a little bit, how harrowing a look he presented --matching well, his beaten voice. At the very, lower edge of his vision, his dark jacket was torn and unstuffed, caked in mud and soaked in ice. His pants, especially the lower legs, were in worse condition, showing through to his darkened socks at some points. He really didn’t mind the look much, it was representative of the shattering weakness that prevailed his body, at all those same points.

At points, across his shoulders, soft stains hinted at the impact of bloody flesh against his darkened clothes. He wasn't sure he wanted to remember how he got those. And he quickly turned his thoughts away from the events of the past few hours, unable to bear the honestly terrifying paranoid that turned every expression into a grimace and made his emotions counterplay against him. It… felt childish that being scared could honestly have this much of an effect on him. He’d thought, earlier, during the fight, that he’d proven himself as a man and showed the requisite bravery. But, he hadn’t been brave then, he now saw. He’d just been in shock. And, now, as the shock wore off and his genler aspects revealed themselves, Mr. S felt completely and utterly terrified. The back of his mind rang constantly with alarm bells. He felt sure that he was just moments away from dying, that if he didn’t dodge to the left right this instant a sniper bullet -- or a person moving just as quickly -- would paste his body and bring on the darkness.

And this fear was painful, painful, painful. This was worse pain than he’d experienced in a long time. This was the pain he’d experienced as a child that made him want to blubber into tears.

He’d thought himself immune to fear once he’d grown up. But now he understood he just hadn’t been put through enough of it. A soft… rumbling thunder sounded in the distance. Barely loud enough to even have caught his attention, and he sparked his attention to it, staring pointedly at the fixed spot that had originated it, and holding, frozen, before he turned his attention back to Weiss.

Weiss, in contrast, shining in her grey borleo, and only very recently succumbing to the wetness of the rain, merely returned the nod, showing nothing in her expression, as she said: “We… wish to stay at the Schnee Manor.”

“Why?” he asked, impatient.

“We… thought Adam was the only danger. And we’re worried they might attack us if we’re not somewhere safe.”

A confusing mix of emotions warred in his heart for prominence as Mr. S took in the request. It was anger that won out, however; for, during the darker points of his meditative musings as he came up here, as he stared across to every horizon, wondering where Raven might have gone, he started to develop very bitter feelings towards the girls.

The selfish, ungrateful, rude, murderusly incompetent, angry girls who’d put him through this, and come back in fresh pressed clothes asking for passage back into his castle.

He recounted to himself, running a survey of every great trouble he’d faced since he arrived here, and all of them, in some regard, involved Weiss and her friends. These were forgivable. What was not, was how they’d obviously lied about their relationship to Raven.

At this, a number of exclamations came to mind to Mr. S to stay.

However, his naturally gentler nature revealed itself when he settled for asking: “and, which one of you was responsible for Raven’s recent arrival?”

“I was,” Weiss said, boldly stepping forward, though not managing to hide the overlapping note of assent Yang had presented, setting herself apart as the culprit.

Mr. S ignored Weiss and turned to Yang, speaking with a hollow voice that, unconsciously, filled itself with hateful emotion until it was brimming with wrath. “You,” he said, pointing at her. “Leave. Now. Get out of my house; get out of this city; get out of my life, before I have you arrested for conspiring with terrorists.”

His last sentence had gotten away from him he realized, as his eyes blinked and his shaking fists tightened against the flashing memories that hounded at him.

Noticing this, he returned his voice to it’s previous cool, he turned to the rest of them with an inexpressive look. “The rest of you may stay.”

Yang, foregoing her usual bravado, and overflowing with guilt, nearly bowed with nods and assents as she muttered her hurried apologies.

Weiss, however, stood in her way, standing protectively over the taller girl as she faced Mr. S.

“Didn’t you hear me!” Weiss yelled. “I’m the one who lied!”

“It takes four to lie,” Mr. S responded, pausing in his turn so that she was to his side.

“How can you do this?” Weiss yelled, keeping his attention spared. “I just told you she could be in danger!”

“Well, perhaps she should have thought of that before lying to me,” Mr. S said cooly. “And perhaps you should have thought about it, too, before she lead an army of assassins to my door.”

Weiss found herself sputtering. She recalled a nostalgic feeling to every argument she’d ever had with her father.

“She didn’t lie to you!” Weiss remanded. “I did! I made her lie, ok? If anyone should be kicked out, it’s me! Just let the rest of the stay.”

“I’m not kicking her out for petty vengeance, Weiss. I’m kicking her out because she’s a security threat. If I really felt like blaming people, you’d all be talking about this in a cell.” Mr. S said this, feeling a superior tone of voice coming to him, and earnestly believing these to be his true feelings, despite the natural contradictions they presented when compared to his earlier, clearly presented, sentiments about these, “ungrateful” girls.

“Well…” Weiss paused, drowning in the rain and drowning in her words, “...no! No! You can’t do this! I won’t let you!” She stamped her feet, and waved her arms, feeling such a loss of control that she was sure the earth had fallen out from underneath her.

Mr. S surprised himself: as his anger spiked higher, his face seemed to grow calmer. He could feel that character overtaking him, again. Perhaps this was natural, he’d never been this angry before, not at anyone he could see. Here they’d almost killed him, and here she was yelling like a child and blaming him.

Everyone’s been blaming him, recently. Mr. S thought darkly. Unbeknownst to him, the rage and anger and complete dispassion the world had shown to him… to Mr. Schnee… had affected him somewhat. He’d done everything with honor, and everyone hated him! Everyone!

The worst part of it, was how this list didn’t exclude the people directly profiting from his ventures.

Oh, he knew they weren’t actually mad at him. He knew they only really had these feelings about Mr. Schnee, with whom they’d had long histories. But, feelings can overtake reason. And he could hardly stand how even the most evil, selfish, and thoughtless people who he had reason to meet throughout his day, even those directly dependent on him, whenever they met him… looked down on him.

They all looked down on him, down their noses, like they were better.

Oh, you’re the richest man in the world. And I want you to help me. But, I’m still a good person, they seemed to say. And, even if I’m not a good person, I’m still entitled to look at you with contempt because I’m not “Mr. Schnee”.

It was senseless, but, it was… a travesty, every time, to be so rejected by people.

And, this all came bubbling up now. And he could see that same expression in Weiss’s face.

Well, he couldn’t see that expression, actually. He was lying to himself, but it felt as if he should. He’d seen that expression in so many faces over the days he’d spent here. From business partners, to competitors, to the council. It felt as if he should be seeing it now, with the one person who was actually entitled to show him it. He’d spent so long accepting the blame for someone else's deeds, most of it unfounded, that, in his recent, shaky, state, he couldn’t stand to accept the blame for something he actually was responsible for.

Oh, he knew Weiss had a decades long history. He knew this was the culminating chapter in a long relationship he’d, just that morning, promised himself that he wouldn’t meddle in.

But, right now, he didn’t care. And all he could feel was the building anger. And, as his anger rose and rose and rose, his face only grew colder.

Weiss, nearly flinched as she saw it, almost jumping back from him despite his soft tones.

“Be reasonable, Weiss,” he implored. “She’s a danger to you, as well. She’s a danger to all of your friends. I know she doesn’t mean to be, but even she’ll agree that that’s the case. And, you’re a danger to her, too, Weiss.”

“What-?” Weiss yelled, still unable to muster any of her former poise.

“She’s the method by which Raven can reach us, and you’re the reason why Raven would even want to use her to reach us. The longer she stays anywhere near a Schnee, Weiss, the longer she stays near you, or me, the more certain an outbreak of violence. That’s a danger to everyone involved.”

Mr. S was strictly logical, falling into that comfortable suit, and -- like a poisoned man cutting off his limb -- departed from all of his anger and emotions, as he decided to enact his spite for the girl the best way he knew how: by letting reality run its course.

Weiss was bending under the terrible weight of reality.

“No, no, no.” she whispered, her horror picking up momentum.

He was right and she was wrong. That much was certain. She’d nearly gotten him killed and he was allowing her to limp home with three of her friends. He wasn’t even asking for an apology! And everything he said made a terrible sort of sense!

But… Weiss could never remember a time when he _hadn’t_ made sense.

He’d made perfect sense when he’d decided, “tutoring, will serve you better,” and caused her to spend the last several years of her life trapped in the Schnee manor.

He’d never failed in his judgement when he’d told her few, tentative friends that they ought not to visit so much, distracting her, as they were, from her private sessions.

He’d all but cornered her with logic when he’d made her agree that, “Atlas Academy” was the only academy. And, even as she ground under his control, she’d been forced to admit to herself, that he was right.

All her life, he’d never stopped making sense, he’d never failed in his calculations, and she hated her life more than anyone she knew!

“You… you don’t know that!” she yelled desperately. “They might be after Yang, too!”

“If they were, she would’ve been the first one they attacked. Raven’s portals are always closest to her, after all.”

“They won’t attack if she’s in the castle!” Weiss promised. “We’ll make her stay there!”

“Is that why they felt brave enough to send two armed figures into my office?” Mr. S spoke in an even voice, in contrast to Weiss’s wavering cries.

Tears were coming to Weiss’s eyes now, and her breaths were coming in short bursts. Her hands were hooked behind her head and she’d fallen onto her knees in the mud, crouching low before him.

“Please,” she said, tearful sobs coloring her voice.

Even as she fought herself, however, she knew how terribly she’d lost this battle, and how unsparingly the rest of her life would unfurl. This was how it always unfurled, whenever her father was involved.

Because, of course, Yang wouldn't be the end of it.

Even now Weiss foresaw how it would make sense for Ruby to go as well: why take such a massive risk as the death of thousands, if she had even a minute chance of relating to Raven? Not to mention, Ruby wouldn’t be one to leave Yang by herself.

And why would Blake even want to stay with her, the old Weiss, who lied and manipulated and injured just to get her way, and couldn’t even succeed in doing that?

Of course it wouldn’t be anything dramatic, but, under the strain and loneliness of the house, they’d grow apart. Blake would resent her for making her lose her friends, for forcing her to live in a household filled with Schnee just for her sake, for making her lie until they got into that position. And Weiss… Weiss shuddered to imagine the kind of person she would become once she was in that position again.

And, there, Weiss saw it all unraveling, from the single thread of Yang’s departure.

“I… I’m sorry!” she said, leaning on her arms, which were driven into the mud, and gritting her teeth, directing the statement at no one in particular.

Mr. S’s expression was cruel and uncaring.

It wasn’t a malicious cruelty, or even a self-congratulatory one, but rather the one that adorned the face of every person who, convinced that they have done everything required of them, retired peacefully into an uncaring repose -- that would allow them to overlook even the most heart wrenching scenes of suffering with little effect.

“Get up, Weiss,” Mr. S said. “Let’s go home.”

And never had three words sounded so terrible to Weiss as she huddled herself in the rain.

Suddenly however, a soft hand came onto Weiss’s shoulder, and a gentle reminder of her past came flooding back up to her.

“There’s another way, you don’t see,” the words pulled themselves from her in a whisper. They were old, and half forgotten, and were the central thesis upon which she’d built her courage when, for the first time, she abandoned her Father’s reason and went to Beacon, and met Blake.

Looking up, it was Blake’s hand; and it was Blake’s kindly face that looked down at her with firm determination.

And, with that backing her, Weiss found it a little easier to gather the courage necessary, this time.

“No,” she said softly.

“What?” Mr. S asked, sounding more offended than his rational mind told him he should.

“I said no,” Weiss said. “I’m not going to be staying here without Yang!”

Here, she made a turn to move, starting to walk away.

“Wait!” Mr. S said, “are you insane!”

“Maybe!” Weiss whipped back around to face him with a rain-streaked face. “I won’t be sad to leave this place, though!”

“So, you really want to keep her here?”

“I want her to stay with me!”

“Then we’ll set up accommodations for her in one of the auxiliary palaces!”

“Those aren’t as safe!” Weiss yelled, anger growing.

“They’re enough. And I shouldn’t have to remind you, you’re on a rather short bargaining position.”

“No! She stays in the main palace, with me!” Weiss pressed.

“That’s impossible, and you know it!” Mr. S was yelling fully now, anger commanding. Why was he so angry? He’d been calm a moment ago, he told himself. “She’ll stay in the auxiliary palace, or she doesn’t stay at all!” Mr. S’s fist shook again with a hard rage.

And Weiss, despite her bravado, felt herself pressing needily back against Blake’s supporting hand.

“Fine!” she relented at last. “She’ll stay in the auxiliary palace. But I’m staying there with her!”

‘Those aren’t as safe!’ Mr. S almost yelled but then stopped himself.

Weiss, through her saness, was smiling triumphantly at him, now. It seemed she’d gotten the better of his logic, after all.

And, Mr. S’s, grip suddenly loosened. And he said something that truly surprised the heiress.

“Fine!” he spat, “go.”

His anger was directed more at the slight of losing an argument than at any real stakes he had in the conversation. He wasn't sure why he ever cared in the first place. He hardly knew the girl!

"Leave this city, and a good day to you,” he bowed lightly, taking some satisfaction in Weiss’s worried looks, and began to walk away.

Weiss was frozen with shock. She surprised herself with her surprise. Why was she surprised? This is father she was talking about. This was something he’d do, right? It was strange, how out of character this felt… she’d been less surprised when he’d accepted her and Blake’s relationship.

“Let's go, Weiss,” Winter stepped forward, speaking evenly and leaving the guard that surrounded Mr. S. “I’ll escort you to the port.”

Mr. S hardly noticed the notable departure.

Still, as he walked, the voice of his better angel came to haunt him.

You’re condemning a young girl to her death, it whispered.

_I_ almost died! Mr. S shot back. Besides, I afforded her every opportunity, I have no guilt in this.

You’re condemning a young girl to her death, the words came again. And the words were terrible.

Death?

Well… what about my death? Mr. S reasoned. They’re probably not after any of them, anyway. Yeah, nintey nine percent, they were only after him. Why would they leave that Yang girl, otherwise. He was nintey nine percent sure that was the case. Hating how he couldn't allow himself to admit the last one percent as a casualty to reason.

You’re condemning a young girl to her death.

How ageist of you. What does her youth have to do with anything? Mr. S’s thoughts came, frantic, now, and he was treading upon them with little care. Besides, he thought, I just saved a literal orphanage. I’m sure that gets you a pass.

You’re condemning a young girl to her death.

...Shut up! He yelled, feeling true anguish that superseded his fear. Oh, how the painful fear of a few moments ago seemed respiteful, now that he’d thrown himself into doing this.

You’re condemning a young girl to her death. Do you really want to be a man that does that?

No! I just… what am I supposed to do! I’m going to die!

You're condemning a young girl to her death. And you're playing the part of her father.

And then, flashing painfully through his memory, the second, searing voice came:

* * *

But, he restrained himself, looking at the man encased in a dungeon of stone and asking: “When I go out there, is there anything you want me to do?”

“Weiss,” he said, “my youngest daughter. She will hate you… me. Do not think this is something that can be fixed with words, or fixed at all, she… she is hurt, because of what I’ve done to the family name, and she despises that I’ve disowned her from it- for her safety!” he said, preempting Mr. S’s rebukes.

Mister Schnee sighed, regaining his train of thought as he continued. “She hates me for what she sees as besmirching the family name, and she will continue hating you unless you can meet her impossible standards.

“She’s an idealist,” he said wearily, “despite my best efforts.”

“Why tell me this now?” Mr. S asked.

“Because that idealism and her opinion of me will make her… difficult.” Again, he saw the need to preempt Mr. S. “-Whatever you may think of me, or of her,” he said, with a quickly peaking tone, “you must promise that you will think of her. You must think above all of Whitley and of all my daughters; before the company, before the city, before your life.” This, he said without flourish or decoration, stating it as simply as if it were fact.

“Look,” Mr. S said with an appeasing, exhorting quality to his voice, “I wouldn’t just-”

“Promise me,” Mister Schnee demanded. “Promise me, as one father to another.”

The sudden, recalcitrant shock of the request was enough to wake the man, and before he could even measure his words, Mr. S found himself speaking.

“I promise,” he said, meaningfully as the stone creeped over an invisible border around the man’s neck, and with a tripped, blinding flash struck forth, leaving Mr. S staring, bewildered at the dignified, stone countenance of Mister Schnee.

* * *

Mr. S stopped in his tracks, shameful tears running down his cheeks, lost in the rain.

His security team nearly bumped into the back of him, and he froze, unheeding of the gathering stares that were being drawn onto him,

You’re a demon with words, Schnee.

Mr. S was taken by a character of the promise he hadn’t noticed when he first made it, confused and flustered as he’d been, then. Mr. Schnee had made him promise, “as one father to another”, and the memory of her was hot enough to hurt!

“Wait!” he yelled, his pained voice carrying over the now quickly dissipating rain.

By the time Weiss had turned to face him, the rain was completely gone, though the world was still in the shadow of rain clouds.

Mr. S, in his turn, also turned to face her, unable to bear the tension of opening his eyes, for his heart still burned with false images of…

He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and then opened his eyes, the effort of it taking something fundamental out of him, as he soon collapsed, falling back into a sitting crouch. He landed roughly on the dirt, one arm resting on a raised knee, and revealing further to himself the haggar state of his clothes and of his body.

His security team fussed over him, but he made no show of noticing them, keeping his cold, blue eyes focused squarely on Weiss.

“Ok,” he admitted with a weary smile, letting the tiredness show in his eyes, “you win.”

“What?” Weiss said, perplexed. “What did I win?” a suspicious tone coloring her voice.

“I’m saying you’ve won our little game. I have to give up. You can stay.”

Weill, still, was no less confused, to go by the askant blinking that overtook her eyelids. “And, Yang, too?” she asked.

“I’m admitting,” Mr. S started after a deep breath, “that I… can’t allow myself to kick you out of the castle while monsters like…that… are out for our blood.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Weiss said, still guarded and suspicious.

“Because I’m hoping that I can trust you to be reasonable. And, I want to know: if we allow your friend to stay, what compromises are you willing to agree to, so that this never happens again?”

Weiss, with an almost dreamlike expression, nodded. “Anything.”

Mr. S looked up at Schwarz. “And, can you devise any method that can keep her stay here… somewhat safe?”

“Yes,” Schwarz said, ornamenting her answer with all the uncertainty that could be expected of her.

“Then, I believe we have an agreement,” Mr. S said, feeling his voice come out like dead wood, and feeling himself grow lethargic, as if his body were taking root in the wet soil.

* * *

The agreement was yet to be finalized, but all could agree that -- until more permanent measures could be set up -- temporary solutions would be necessity.

As part of the temporary agreement, Yang had to stay in the small, 11th century, hovel that stood, squared away, in the far corner of the outer gardens.

There, she’d been outfitted with a portable space heater, a line in the grass she wasn’t allowed to cross, and two walls worth of turrets pointing at the space surrounding her humble abode.

With great difficulty, Weiss had managed to bargain Schwarz down from having the turrets point directly at the girl.

Ruby hugged Yang, jumping stepped back over the line as she ended the hug.

“We’re really going to miss you, Yang,” Ruby said, with a sadness tinging her melancholy.

“Jeez,” Yang laughed, you make it sound like I’m dying. “I’m still going to be here, you know!”

“You know…” Ruby started, looking at the mud walled hut, the rattling space heater, and the water soaked interior Yang would be staying in, “I can say and keep you company overnight, if you like?”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that!” Yang said, appreciatively.

“Ok,” Ruby responded, just a bit too quickly.

“Yeah…” Yang replied, slightly less appreciatively. “You can go now.”

And they went, and Yang remembered that she forgot to ask for a scroll charger, and she saw that her scroll was at five percent.

“Aw man!” What had she ever done to deserve this?

* * *

Mr. S, having managed to end his most recent argument under vaguely good terms, felt once again like a light soul.

And, really, he felt good that he hadn’t kicked the girl out. Even if the memory hadn’t pushed him over, he dreaded to think how he’d sleep if the girl actually left. Not to mention if something happened to her while she was out…

Mr. S shook the thought away, feeling more at ease now that he was in the strangely cosy interior of the Schnee Manor. The servants were all exceedingly kind, and all stopped to stand aside and nod in acknowledgement of him when he passed.

At first, he thought it might have been pity of the: oh, you almost died sort.

But, upon looking closer, he saw something quite different gleaming in their eyes. Pride.

Servants, in Atlas, considered themselves as much a part of the house as the heads, if not more so. See, the earlier, disastrously inept coup attempt by the head staff once the Blake situation had been absorbed. They were often parts of a house for generations, with long histories of service and pride bolstering their confidence.

And, much as Mr. S was a stranger to it, he was appreciative, and noted that, of everyone in remnant, the Schnee house servants were the only people who ever looked at him with anything resembling understanding. Without any of that “at least I’m not you,” nonsense.

Today, however, they were looking at him with pride and great awe. After all, he was the head of the house, and he’d just come back, victorious, from battle. For, not only had he survived, greatly outnumbered, against some of the top hunters in the world. He’d even single handedly, defeated two of them in single combat, despite the fact that one of them was carrying the power of the fall maiden. And, he’d performed this feat with great cunning and wisdom, the stories and rumors told. He’d, cunningly, lured his enemies into the dust palace crater, which was filled with half frozen water, and there… he’d unleashed his mighty semblance, shaking the earth with his power, and dominating the atmosphere with his.. Wisdom!

Not to mention, he was also a Knight! Saving those orphans with his superhuman deductive powers, and sparing their lives despite the great risk he took in letting his attempted killers escape.

And, oh, yes, as head of the house, his pride was his servants pride, as well. And what did servants do, in their free time, when interacting with the people of another house, except get into “well… my lord can beat up your lord!” arguments. Well, the schnee house stood with calm, those arguments would be a thing of the past. Because now it was obvious, which lord of Atlas actually maintained his hunting prowess despite his very sedentary schedule.

They all shouted this, as they lined the walls, and crept around the corners to catch a glimpse of him.

And, Mr. S was loving it!

He walked in just the right way, slumping slightly to show his exhaustion, but no so much that he failed to look badass. And his clothes! He was glad to have work the slightly darker outfit, at it looked charred and damaged, testament to the epic battles he’d surely fought. And his hands were covered in mud, showing how he wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty, and not at all the long moments he spent ducking against the ground!

This was the greatest!

The doctor came running, bowing, mid stride as she came, breathless to catch him. In her hand was a white, plastic suitcase with blue markings.

She took a moment to catch her breath.

“Are you ok?” she asked, worried. “I need to perform a checku-”

“No need,” Mr. S said, interrupting her with a raised hand. “I’m unharmed. Just… let everyone know I’m not to be disturbed. I’d like to rest.” He said this was very, very casual tone, letting slip, casually, that fightly like this were basically no big deal, really. He barely even cared. He was just that casual about this kind of stuff.

At the same time, he let slip that he was tired. Revealing, by doing so, a more vulnerable, human side that allowed people to relate while, at the same time, not being too vulnerable. The doctor would, of course, only nod in a familiar manner, chiding under her breath about how hunters never look after themselves enough.

The doctor instead said: “Shut up and take this thermometer!” stuffing the glass tube into his mouth and taking him roughly by the arm to her work station.

Doctors, it turned out, could get quite huffy when someone told them how to do their job.

And, Mr. S sat grouchily in the hospital bed, scowling at how the doctor had ruined his moment, and turned him into an ER patient with numerous tubes sticking from his body, as a portable X ray on a robotic arm waved over him.

“Well, Mr. Schnee, It seems you’re fine,” the doctor said, smiling as she went over her personal checklist.

I could’ve told you that, Mr. S thought.

“Ok, all we need to do now is the aura check and you’ll be good to go. Just, make sure you come back if you notice any symptoms” the doctor said, holding up her scroll.

“Uh, that won’t be necessary,” Mr. S said, raising his hand and gently pushing the contraption away.

“Uh, what?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Mr. S said, adamant.

“But it’ll only take a second,” the doctor began, bewildered.

“Yes, but it’s unnecessary. I mean, what exactly will you learn from doing that aura scan? That I have aura? You already know that!” Mr. S began, rapidly sitting up and pulling at the various tubes and patches that covered his chest.

This, atleast, managed to get the doctor to put away her scroll as she hurried over to keep him from touching any of the bloodlines, and worked to remove them herself with her far more expert hands.

“But really, Mr. Schnee, it’s just due procedu-”

“See, that’s why I’m opposed to it.” Mr. S began. “The moment someone invented aura detectors, people knew that they had to have them in hospitals because they were new. And then people kept using them because they were in hospitals. They’re pointless! They only tell you something everyone knows!”

“Well,” the doctor said, slightly affronted, “they can tell you the level of aura.”

“So can the person you’re treating!” Mr. S said, himself sounding insulted. “Not to mention, so what if someone has low aura? All you’d tell them to do is rest, something they’re going to do anyway!”

“Well-” the doctor began.

“I’m opposed to them on principle. They’re an unnecessary waste,” Mr. S crossed his arms. “I don’t care if they only take a second, I don’t want them done, as they represent everything that’s wrong with modern medicine -- doctors just racking up costs with pointless tests.”

“Hu-” the doctor started to puff up, looking really affronted.

“And I’m not blaming you, because you work on salary here, so don’t get to offended. All I’m saying is that I never want anyone to perform an aura test on me, ever again, no matter the circumstance. And put that request on my medical file, so every doctor can see.”

“Fine,” the doctor relented, rolling her eyes and bobbing her head in such a way that it caused her springly, brown hair to bounce in the arcs it formed either side of her chin. “Not like most doctors do those tests in an emergency anyway, they are pointless,” she muttered under her breath as she went over to the computer and updated Mr. Schnee’s medical file.

Schwarz had been waiting outside of the office for Mr. S, seeming a lot more… attached, than usual.

He didn’t really mind, however. He didn’t mind anyone, really. The house staff was great, even the doctor had only been doing her job, and, most importantly at all, with Adam gone, he wasn’t under threat of starving anymore.

Small Blessings, remember?

“Schwarz?” he said, feeling a faintly jolly attitude coming to him. “Where do you think we should eat out tomorrow? I’m feeling…” he consulted his algorithm chart, “Atlesian,” he said at last.

“Well, we certainly won’t be eating there unless they do deliveries, Sir,” Schwarz said, “we’re on lockdown.”

“What?” Mr. S said, breathless.

“Well, there was just a recent attack, Sir.”

“But, we have the Yang situation under control, don’t we?” Mr. S asked. “In fact, it might even be safer outside the castle, considering.”

“Well, yes, but we can’t be sure that Raven didn’t leave any enemy agents in the city before she retreated. We’ll need to perform a thorough search of the entire surrounding area before we can allow anyone under a protected status to leave this castle, sir.”

“And, how long will the search take?’ Mr. S said, a dreadful feeling growing in his stomach.

“Oh, about two weeks,” Schwarz said.

* * *

“Hmm, see? I told you so! I told you he had a heart! See?” Ruby said.

Well, ok, Ruby didn’t actually say that, but she certainly looked like a very smug bunny, shooting longing glances over at Weiss as they walked through the main lobby to their rooms.

“Stop looking at me like that!” Weiss, finally, acknowledged to Ruby.

“Looking at you like what?” Ruby asked, with a perplexed tone of voice.

“Like you know anything about my father!” Weiss answered.

“But he really seems like he cares about you! And he even accepts you and Blake!”

Weiss scoffed. “Look, he may be many things. And I’ll admit I’m wrong about some of them. But my father,” she stressed, “is anything but a fan of our relationship.” Weiss held Blakes hand in mutual solidarity. “He only pretended to accept us as a joke, if you’ll recall. If you can even call what he did a joke. And I’m sure his feelings don’t elate anywhere beyond ‘tolerance’.”

“Aw but he let you stay…” Ruby drooped.

“Yeah, and I said he tolerated us. That’s different from acceptance.”

“Aw come on,” Ruby jabbed several light elbows into Weiss’s side. “I really think he might be turning around. And even I know you’ve got to be patient.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right…” Weiss said, for the first time a hint of relention coming to her voice. This… smaller act of kindness was more believable, in a way, then his earlier extravigancies of “acceptance.”

“You know I’m right,” Ruby smiled. “I mean, you can’t just expect him to turn into a doting mom like Tiyang all of a sudden!”

Here, Ruby, Weiss and even Blake laughed lightly, as they remembered Ruby and Yang’s mutual father.

“Yeah…” Weiss said, coming out of her laughter and feeling better in the ensuing silence. She was content now, to stew in it, comfortingly, peacefully, meditativ-

“Weiss!” Mr. S’s voice skidded into view from one of the upper railings.

The triplet turned to look up at him.

“Oh, good, you’re still here!” Mr. S breathed out, almost huffing his lungs out as he leaned across, supporting himself on the handrail. “I need to ask you something, it’s about Blake!”

“What?” Weiss asked with a straight tone.

“Are you two planning on getting married anytime soon?” Mr. S asked, a hopeful note taking his voice.

* * *


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35**

* * *

Adam was dead, and his body was missing.

Atlas had a fine institutional memory. In a city where every street had eyes, and every drone was a potential witness, accurate records were not in short supply.

Still, cameras did not make the best samaritans. So, when situations required immediate attention, Atlas called in the police. And, when situations started affecting history books, Atlas called in all of the police.

Thus, in the aftermath of Raven’s assasinaton attempt, Mantel found itself experiencing a sudden shortage of law enforcement, as all active duty personnel from the surrounding area were sucked up like water through Atlas’s tether system.

Many things were quickly discovered in Atlas.

Three dead bodies, various blood spatters and body parts, a crater full of ice. Although, in that last case, a boling pool of heated water was found, carved into the body of the otherwise frozen lake. Cinder and Mercury were nowhere to be found.

Down in the witness-deprived Mantle, as far the police departments were concerned, there was a half-day blackout with regards to information.

Later investigations dug through the archived footage, of course, trying to find anything they’d missed. And, unsurprisingly, they’d missed quite a lot.

A thousand petty crimes and hundred middling ones tore through the city, leaving it riddled with graffiti marks and minor scuffs.

The most major crimes were the least visible, however. And the highlight of these was the daring exodus of the remnants of the White Fang.

The Raven attack was a distraction from heaven, as far as the cowering remnants of the organization were concerned; and everywhere across the city, in each burrow and farm house and inner city block, a thousand minds cooperated seamlessly in response to the impromptu signal flare of the attack. And, in the dead of night, under the cover of rain, on the ocean-side borders of the city, several dozen bullheads and dust runners made a break for the open ocean: the first of many waves of escaping faunus.

Of course, the Mantel police would not be unwise to this for very long. What they lacked in responsiveness, they made up for with a surveillance system that was almost as extensive as that which befitted Atlas.

The same could not be said for the City of The Damned, which lacked a regular presence of police on the best days, and had about as many cameras as an Anti-Photography cult on picture day.

That is, to say, it had a lot of working cameras, and not one that was pointing in the right direction.

And so, investigators were left at a loss, as to what happened to Adam’s missing body. Those following the case were left with little to go on except an incidence report of a bar fight and some UFO sightings.

* * *

Adam’s body was dead, and now lost.

Mr. Schnee’s body was still present, however, and still under the purview of Mr. S, who was now rapidly backpedalling.

“I’m not saying you have to get married!” he retorted with frustration. “I’m only letting you know, that you don’t have to wait! I thought you liked her!?”

“We've only been together for three months!!” a crimson blush ran all the way to Weiss’s collarbone, as she forced herself to straighten into a rail spike, bolstering against the increasing, downward pull of her mortification. “What makes you think we’d want to get married now!?”

“... Love!?” Mr. S answered, at a loss for any more rational argument.

“We’re not getting married!” Weiss said, unwilling to give ground.

Mr. S sighed, and leant back into a straight stand from where he’d been leaning over the safety rail. A surrendering look painted his expression with disappointed colors. To be honest he hadn’t expected that to work. But…

“Ok, Weiss, very well” he put his hands together in prayer form, tilting his fingertips to her imploringly, “how about, a quarter year anniversary celebration?”

* * *

Adam was dead, and Blake was trying very hard to feel right.

“Ugh, goodness, can you believe my father!” Weiss seethed deeply next to her, repeating such phrases as, “I can’t believe him!” and “This is unbelievable!”

“Uhum,” Blake looked away to the side wall as they walked, making some very non-commital noises.

“You know, this is just like him-”

And Blake burst suddenly, hands coming up to cover her face, into very quiet tears. Sobs shaking her, she walked down a side hallway, her attempt at escape failing her, as she fell against a pillar wall, too weak to move any further.

“Oh, no, Blake!” Weiss hovered around the girl like a fluttering moth, avoiding very carefully any physical contact with the crying faunus, even as her wild movements suggested a desire for appropriately solemn contact. “I didn’t really mean what I said back there!” Weiss voice shook with panic, as she desperately thought of the words that would fix the situation. “I do want to get married, really!”

Blake, falling with the momentum of her cries, collapsed onto her thighs, sitting crouched against the wall as increasingly heavy sobs shook themselves from her tired body.

“Um… I love you!” Weiss said, feeling very anguished now, as every sob seemed to stab into her.

Weiss, however, did not apologize.

This wasn’t because of excessive pride, or because of ignorance. No, to Weiss, it was clear that she’d done someting to draw the reaction. But, still, she wasn’t the kind of person to immediately start apologizing just because someone became emotional. No. Weiss was determined to have a grown up conversation with Blake, and to move on from there.

But, then, Blake continued crying for the next fifteen seconds. A deep, sad, cry that kept her from articulating, and which Weiss had never imagined could last so long. And she’d never imagined someone else's pain could hurt so much!

By the forty-fifth second, Blake, on the trailing end of her cathartic expression, regained some of her facultures, and managed to open her eyes to a clear world.

The first thing she saw was Weiss, on her knees next to her, and clasping her hands as desperation shook her voice.

“-am so, so deeply sorry, Blake,” Weiss said, genuine regret filling her. “Just please, please talk to me!”

Weiss’s own eyes, in contrast to Blake’s, were shut tightly as she shook her clasped fists with a begging gesture.

That actually managed to draw a laugh from the previously crying girl.

Weiss’s eyes opened with flustered surprise at the noise. “Uh…”

“I wasn’t crying because of you!” Blake said, affronted.

“...ok,” Weiss accepted, glad to have gotten out of that unscathed. “Why were you crying?” she asked.

Blake hesitated, and looked to be on the verge of running away again.

Weiss, impulsively and without thought, reached out her hands and grabbed at Blake’s. “Stay,” broke from her lips.

Blake took a surprised look as her hands were lifted up to chest level by the earnest looking girl across from her. Blake looked off to the side, eyes drifting downward. “I don’t know,” she answered at last.

“What?” Weiss drew back a hair, sparked by indignation. “What do you mean you don’t know?” she asked, too late to soften the admonition in her voice.

“I mean I don’t know!” Blake raised her voice in response. “Can’t I just be sad! I… I’m just sad, ok? What else am I supposed to feel?” Blake’s voice quickly died down, coming out in a tired whisper by the time she came to the end of her sentence.

And, Weiss remembered suddenly, the more than usually melancholic tone that had descended upon the girl over the past several days.

Weiss had assumed that was because they were stuck in the Schne Manor, and that she would get over it once they were able to leave… Ohhhh.

“Ok, look, I know I’ve made some mistakes. But you have to believe me, we will get out of here soon-”

“It’s not because of you!” Blake interrupted her, trying hard to hammer the point home. “Stop apologizing already!”

That... knocked Weiss for a loop. “Ok, you’re sad, and you don’t know why, and it’s not because you’re stuck in a castle with my father.” She said, growing steadily more confused over the course of her recap.

Blake only looked away in assent.

And, for whatever reason, as Weiss looked at Blake, she felt she just knew the girl, and a new feeling developed in her, one that seemed to grow and burn in time with her thoughts.

“You know,” Weiss laughed to interrupt the silent shore they’d fallen into. “I actually missed this place, back when I was at beacon.”

Blake remained further silent, and Weiss, pushed forward by that new feeling that made her want to say everything, cursed herself as she dove back into her confession, committed to the truth.

“I…” here she fell to a whisper and leaned forward so that only Blake could hear, “actually missed father.”

That got the faunus’ attention. Blake whipped back to look at Weiss, eyes wide.

“Haha, yeah.” Weiss laughed nervously, she felt ashamed of the confession and nervous of how Blake would react to it, but that new feeling drove her on, even as, at times, she wondered why she continued letting herself fall prey to it. “I even missed him,” she repeated, looking off to the side to make the comment seem incidental. “Crazy as it seems, I… actually rather appreciated, sometimes, how he’d see my performances and tell me -- ‘you’ve merited yourself’.” She quoted her father, taking on a comically stern expression and punctuating her mock-baritone voice with a small nod.

Blake laughed at the impression.

Weiss laughed along, quieter. “I hated him. I still hate him, rightly. He… destroyed…” she took a calming breath. “He hurt a lot of people, Blake, including me. He… and I still missed him. I never wanted to see him again. But, when I was alone at Beacon, before, I still missed him. I don’t know, maybe because he was the only father I had, but I couldn’t help it.

“The feeling didn’t last long,” she quickly course corrected. “When I got here, I only wanted to leave as soon as possible. But, still, for a moment back then I… well, I still hated him, but…” Weiss huffed in frustration, covering her face with a hand and shaking her head. “It all probably sounds pathetic, doesn’t it?”

“No!” Blake surprised herself by yelling, rising onto her knees as she redoubled the grip between her and Blake’s hands. “It doesn’t. Please continue.”

Weiss smiled at the support. “I’m saying that… I know my father wasn’t nearly as bad as Adam, but… I wanted you to know that-”

“I know,” Blake said, looking very suddenly at ease.

Weiss was moved by the response; and in her elation she said something that would haunt her in the days and hours to come: as she would scrutinize her every word, and try to find something in them that could have drawn such a startling reaction from Blake.

The words, which would cause them both so much turmoil, as they would be burnt into her troubled thoughts, were:

“Thank you, Blake,” Weiss leant forward to hug her with genuine love and appreciation. “I just knew I could trust you.”

Blake leapt back from her as if struck by lightning, on her feet in one movement.

Weiss nearly fell, catching herself on a hand as she looked up at the now standing Blake.

Stiff backed and horrified, Blake set in motion, walking away from the girl.

“Don’t!” Blake implored, stopping Weiss, mid rise. Blake supported herself with a straight arm on a nearby wall. “I just need to be alone for a while. It’s not because of you. I promise it’s not because of you. I just need to be alone. It’s my fault, all of it. I’m sorry.”

Blake looked very weak as she said these words, having to lean on the wall as she walked.

Weiss, in her turn, looked very sad, a hand partially stretched in the succeeding girl’s direction.

* * *

Adam was dead, and the world kept turning.

Most notably unaffected, was seatrade.

For, while air travel on Remnant was always a dicey proposition, as every new disturbance created grimm storms. Sea trade, on the whole, was far more stable. One could always rely on the sea-lanes, it was said.

This was unfortunate, for some people.

Somnra was a faunus burdened by this responsibility. She ran the main shipping dock of the largest city of Menagerie. And every day a quarter of a million tons of cargo approached shore, eager to leave.

Ideally, the ships would show up on time, none of the machines would ever break, and everything would go along orderly and in a quiet fashion.

In reality, the harbor was a booming mess of crates and lifters, and very few of her initiatives had worked to make it any neater.

Still, despite the thousand ton ships that greeted her every morning, Somnra very quickly learned to appreciate how -- comparatively speaking -- they caused her very little problems on an issue to weight basis.

No, on that basis, her highest density of problems came from people. Every hour was a new request and petition. “Oh, I know I don’t have the proper papers, but I really, really, really need to charter a ship.”

Ha! Somnra laughed.

Of course, she never granted the requests. But, she still had some fun with them.

One of her favorite moves was to ask why they needed the charter. Oh, the hilarious excuses never failed to amuse her.

Rather, they didn’t fail to amuse the first four hundred times. After that, it started to become bothersome, how everyone felt they could just barge into her office uninvited.

Over time, this became a great problem for Somnra, until she’d hiried the new door guard.

Totan was a massive hulk of a creature. The only thing that managed to cast a greater shadow than his stern, old-world sensibilities was his massive size and heraklion strength.

Somnra hadn’t hired him for his strength alone, however. No, what perhaps she valued most about the man was his sense of duty, and the strength of honor that bound him tightly to the word of law and courtly manners.

And, Somnra was convinced she’d done so rightly, because she faced very little bother after hiring him.

So, it was very surprising to her when, that day, Totan came crashing through the door, stumbling back in an unbalanced fashion; his bent bull horns scraping against the metal fin of the ceiling as he toppled to land on a pile of grain bags.

Somnra had many questions. Chief among them: why Totan wasn’t getting up to face the intruder.

After Totan, through the destroyed door, came Kali Belladonna, answering many of Somnra’s questions with her presence.

The woman wore a plain, brown robe that contrasted with her stance and stature. Beyond her humble clothes, she was a very well ordered woman, that gave off a glow of youth and order wherever she went.

It was by these, indefinable, characteristics that the Kali became recognizable.

To all of Menagerie, she was an icon; and all recognized her wherever she might have been, whether it be in the market, on TV, or standing over the desk of Kuo Kuana’s port manager.

“I will need a ship to Atlas,” Kali said, an indeterminate tone taking her voice. “I would also like a city order, requesting my admittance to the Schnee Manor.”

Somnra didn’t ask why. It was obvious why.

“Will you provide me with these things?” Kali asked.

“...ok,” Somnra looked up from her desk of papers, saying the words for the first time in her career.

* * *

Adam was dead, and a meeting was adjourned in his honor.

In a quiet bar, having gotten admittance after hours, four White Fang Members and a fifth took positions around a standing table. The crickets chirped harmoniously in the warm, night air and a cool breeze blew through fenced off section of land that enclosed the space.

A door slammed closed, and they all looked over as the bar patron, a friend of the fang, came quietly to dispense drinks, before leaving with a bow.

What followed was a long silence, as they all took small sips of their drinks, and occasionally dropped an ice cube or two into their glasses, once they deemed themselves ready enough.

Karro was the first of them to break this cycle.

“You know what I think happened?” the rather disappointingly average-sized bear faunus left the question to hang in the air, keeping his eyes on the slow drift of ice-cubes as they circled round in his drink.

“What?” the weasel next to him asked, leaning against the table with his back to the rest of them. He bent his head back and blew a stream of smoke up into the air.

“I think he just got too emotional; he let his anger get the better of him, and he got into a shootout he shouldn’t have.

“Yeah, or maybe he was just a homicidal maniac that needed to be put down,” Soma challenged softly, though with none-too-little of the acid that came in his tone whenever the topic came up. He was a wolverine who, in all respects, looked very much like Karro, despite the startling difference of opinions they often found themselves faced with.

“Well-”

“Look,” Feru, the fox, said, bringing a dark, thin arm to massage his closed eyes. “Can you guys give it a break?”

“We’re here because of Adam? Why should we have to?” Karro asked.

“Because I’m tired of your arguments,” Lala answered for him, her voice muddled with discouraging tones.

Karro desisted with some stifled mumbles, grumbling as he cradled his drink closer.

“So, anyway, you guys hear about the Schnee situation?” Feru asked, trying to fan the conversation back to life.

“Who hasn’t,” Lala answered, bringing a crystal glass up to her mouth.

“Yeah, It’s pretty weird isn’t it?” Feru observed. “I mean, just the whole relationship aspect of it.”

“Yeah, pretty weird,” Weasel answered, still turning away from the rest of the group, and taking a drag of his glowing cigarette.

“Yeah,” Samo agreed.

And there was silence.

“Seriously, though,” Samo said, “ there’s no way you guys believe Adam was working with them, right?”

“Obviously!”

“I know! I just didn’t want to say it first!” Karro looked over the table at his intellectual rival, surprised to share an opinion with the wolverine.

“Does anyone even believe the news anymore?” Lala asked, slamming her glass on the counter after a particularly hearty gulp.

“Yeah, I just saw that, apparently, everyone was saying that Adam and Mr. Schnee were colluding and I was like: no… they’re not, duh.”

“Hah, every human is saying that, maybe,” Samo laughed. “But, there’s no faunus alive that would believe Adam was working with Mr. Schnee. The guy hated him!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Karro nodded, surprised but not questioning the sudden support he’d gotten from the Wolverine. “I mean, I seriously think they’re just trying to pile on Adam's legacy with that.”

“Yeah, calm down. He’s piled on his own legacy enough,” Samo said, raising a hand to slow the bear faunus.

“Well, at least we can both agree that, no matter what, Mr. Schnee is the greater evil here.”

“Yeah, I mean, how does that guy even sleep at night?” the weasel postulated, bringing a hand up in question.

“In faunus pelts, probably,” Feru laughed. Several others rose to join him.

“Come on, I’m asking seriously.”

“And you think I’m joking?!” Feru insisted with a laugh. “What? You think he sleeps in pajamas?”

“I think he just sleeps in that suit of his,” Weasel answered. “I don’t think he ever takes it off. He wakes up in that suit, whips faunus in that suit, eats in that suit, fucks his wife in that suit, and goes back to bed in it.” See, the daily life of Mr. Schnee.

"No way," Ferru denied.

“To be honest, I think he might just sleep naked,” weasle said suddenly.

Karro and Soma both joined each other in chocking on, and then spitting out, their respective drinks.

“Dude!”

“Don’t put that image in my head!”

“Hey, I’m only saying it’s natural!” weasle raised his hands with a shrug. “I mean, it’s either that or the faunus skins, here.”

“Anyway,” Karro said, eager to move on from the conversation. “We’re all agreed that he wasn’t working with Adam.”

“Yeah.”

“Of course.”

“Obviously.”

“No shit.”

They all answered in their respective turns, going around the table until the last answer came, very casually, from Lala, who was sitting on his left.

Still, the complete agreement he had from everyone left Karro in some very dire straights. Namely, he still felt the need to make sense.

“So…” Karro then said. “What exactly happened then, these past few days?”

“Look, I’ll say it for the last time,” Samo lept in from the other side. “Mr. Schnee, I don’t know about. I think he’s just trying to keep his image running, and he’s decided trying to keep his daughter in the household is the best way to do that. Probably, he’s biding his time until he can have her quietly killed somewhere. As for Adam… well… I know he wasn’t working with Mr. Schnee.”

Karro nodded in assent, paying suddenly close attention to the conversation.

“Well, what do you think Adam was up to, then?” weasel asked, his voice containing a hint of that goading mirth that took it whenever he knew he was about to start trouble.

“I think he’s an idiotic jackass,” Samo answered, not even trying to dodge the bait.

And, after him, fell Karro. “And I think he’s just trying to protect faunus-”

“Protect faunus!?” Samo laughed loudly. “Dude! Have you heard the reports from Atlas! The guy destroyed the branch up there! No wonder everyone thinks he was working with Mr. Schnee!”

Karro felt impelled to rise to the man’s defence, though he did so quietly in the face of that admonition, and looked aside as he spokt. “Well, he tried at least-”

“What!” Samo rose to new heights, standing back from the desk as his voice lifted to match his rage. “Are you even listening to yourself? The guy killed ten faunus for every human! That’s the opposite statistic you want to take when they outnumber us ten to one! I mean, we would literally have gone extinct if he hadn’t been stopped!”

“The Atlas branch betrayed us first!” the words slipped heatedly from the now blushing Karro! “I know it’s no excuse, I know what he did was wrong, but I was fighting in Vale! I saw what happened to us because of their politics! I know it’s wrong, but I just can’t really muster the indignation at their deaths, when no one even remembers what happened to the Vale branch!”

The speech ended abruptly, and Karro drew in on himself, cradling his drink in both hands.

Everyone fell silent at that admission. Having never gathered the bravery to ask how he’d gotten the prominent scar that decorated his face, they were all suddenly shocked at the revelation, and feeling very sensitive around the unnaturally shy faunus.

Samo, in his turn, retorted with stern words. Though, he spoke now with very little of the combative anger that marked his previous arguments, replacing them with a more reasoning, imploring tone.

“But, he didn’t even kill the people we wanted dead!” he said, reaching out to the man opposite him with words. “I mean, the guy literally had Mr. Schnee himself in a room, and he turns away and starts killing White Fang instead!”

Karro was silent.

And, feeling a little responsible for his current position, weasel decided to pick up in support of the bear’s argument. “Come on, that’s not fair,” he send the admonishing words over to Samo without looking at him. “The Schnee palace wasn’t nicknamed ‘the graveyard’ for nothing. Adam had a lot on his plate.

“And, sure, he’s a loose canon,” weasel admitted, “But, he still the first person to make it into the castle and walk out alive!”

Samo, still stubborn, only grew angry at the admiral. “Yeah, for managing to walk out alive and then die two days later, after destroying everyone in the Atlas branch! And he does this straight after he fails to kill the big man himself! The guy isn’t a loose canon! He’s a dropped grenade!” Samo banged on the table for emphasis.

“Was a dropped grenade!” Karro interrupted, smiling slightly as he looked down at his drink.

And a round of jolly laughter rose up at the positive sign from the bear.

Samo, in his laughter, lifted a glass to the man, becoming him to clink glasses.

Karro obliged him, soon finding himself joined by the rest of them as they touched glasses, drank, and started refilling themselves with the bottles and gourds that had been left behind by the attendant.

And, after a quiet moment of drinking, they all returned to a more comfortable quiet, basking in the casual drunkenness that had overtaken them.

“I just don’t get it,” Karro said at last. “Why would he give it all up like that? He had everything!”

“Come on, the guy’d just lost the entire Vale branch in a one sided massacre, maybe he felt he had nothing to live for?” Feru was the one to answer him.

“But nobody blamed him for that! It was Atlas’s fault they were in that position in the first place!”

“Hm, maybe he blamed himself?”

“Ugh,” Lala rolled her eyes, “boys,” she muttered.

“What?” Feru asked.

“It’s obvious he went because of Blake, duh!”

“Seriously?” Samo said, incredulous.

“Yeah,” Lala assented, “I mean, just think about it. She was his girlfriend, remember?”

“I don’t get it,” Feru said. “I mean, the guy’s girlfriend ditches him, runs away with a train, and starts dating Weiss Schnee. I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure the relationship’s solidly over, by that point!”

“Hey, maybe some things are worth fighting for?” the weasel said, flicking his cigarette away into the grass.

“Yeah, but this guy literally gave up everything. He lost his legacy, the white fang, and his life in that little stint!” Feru started counting off on his fingers. “Is any girl worth that?”

“No girl is worth that,” Samo said suddenly, looking up into the air wistfully, “... and I should know.”

A series of eye rolls went around the table.

“Oh my gods,” Lala sighed, looking up and shaking her head at the impending speech.

“I mean, I gave her everything!” Samo said suddenly, genuine tears coming to his eyes. “And she laughed! Do you know that? She laughed when she-”

“Ok, ok,” Feru calmed, raising his hands to the Wolverine faunus next to him. “We know all about that, Samo. And, we’re really sympathetic, but I don’t think its good for you to keep dwelling on that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Samo agreed, sniffing. “What were we talking about again?”

“Blake,” weasel said, twisting around briefly to pick up another glass.

“More specifically, we were wondering wether she was ‘worth it’,” Karro said.

“Hey, she’s gotta be,” weasel said. “I mean, she literally managed to catch both Adam Taurus and Weiss Schnee. You don’t do that with any ordinary pussy.

“Language!”

“I meant female cat,” weasel smiled at the undoubtedly affronted scowl Feru was locking onto the back of his head -- which he tilted back, downing half his glass in a gulp.

“Trust me, you don’t get a relationship just by being hot,” Samo said, having calmed down from his earlier tearfest. “I mean, she’s a Belladonna, right? I bet she’s very… genteel. You know. All proper like, and a lady.”

“Dude, she spent her entire childhood in the Fang. She’s spent more time here than you have. Do you honestly think she’ll be trained up in tea sets?” Weasel shot back. “There are no girls worth dating here!”

“Fuck you!” Lala scowled.

“What I mean, is: she’s not very likely to be trained in the polititudes of the upper class?”

“Then how did she hook the Schnee?” Samo said.

“Fuck if I know. All I know is, she’s likely not prime dating material.”

“I actually agree,” Lala said, putting herself into the conversation. “I actually met her at a convention once, and she is Such. A bitch,” Lala punctuated, fluffy dog ears flapping on either side of her face.

“Look, this is nice and all. But we’re getting off topic,” Karro said.

“We had a topic?” Samo lifted himself dazedly from his fifth glass.

“Yes. I was saying that, Adam may have not been perfect, but at least he tried to show faunus as anything other than supplicants! I mean, what, would you rather dig Ghira up and put him on the throne? So he can bow to humans on our behalf?”

A round of laughter fell across the group.

“You know what?” Samo stood back onto the flat of his feet, and picking his glass up with a conciliatory gesture. “I’ll say this. The guy fought like a beast. And, when he wasn’t team killing you like an asshole, the Faunus race has never had a greater fighter.”

“And never a brighter symbol!” Karro lifted his own glass.

“And I suppose he wasn’t a bad tactician,” Feru responded, taking up his glass.

“Yeah, he was pretty epic,” weasel held his out at half extent.

“And so handsome!” Lala swooned with theatrical grace, setting off another round of laughs.

“To Adam!” Samo started.

“To Adam!” The other’s chanted in greater unison.

And they all struck out their hands, and poured one out for the departed faunus.

* * *

Adam was dead, and Sienna Khan had yet to hear of it.

In Kuo Kana’s main palace, modern technology was not allowed.

This would have caused great consternation to Sienna Khan, if she didn’t have so many servants to air out her sleeping chambers, fan her with cool air, and light all the candles.

But, considering the palace had a staff of a thousand to replicate these effects, she hardly noticed any inconvenience.

Besides, considering she’d managed to arm-twist the head priests in allowing her to bring a personal harem, she considered this an overall win.

Still, there was one respect, at least, in which she was decidedly behind the rest of the world.

News was rather slow to get to her.

Except in the case of true emergences, the palace was secluded from all visitation during weekend hours, and even during weekdays there would always be a delay, as criers came in and out of the building, to relay whatever news of the beyond they’d managed to recover over the course of their travels.

Of course, this being the modern age, their “travels” often involved a short jaunt down to the nearest cafe that had a news channel on its televisions.

Still Sienna often appreciated the theatrics they undertook in order to best represent their various reports: even if most of them involved miming news reporters.

“And, I, for one, love this faunus! Kiss me! Blake!” The crane faunus, covering her wings with a borleo and playing the part of Weiss Schnee, shouted melodramatically, raising a bent hand up to her forehead.

She… didn’t get many parts.

“And I love you too, human!” the black-cat faunus, who somehow looked less like her part than the crane, stood up, grabbing the crane by the shoulders and bending her back to hide the fact that they weren’t actually kissing.

“I, for one, approve of this!” a thickly accented, polar-bear faunus with a mustache and a hat stood from his chair to declare. “And I also would like to say that I am enamored with Blake’s ears. Thus, by saying so, I consecrate this relationship!” The lines were delivered broken and with great struggle, as the polar bear took a moment every few lines to look at the smudged writing on his palm.

Sienna Khan, really appreciated their effort, but wondered sometimes weather it would worth their spared feelings not to tell them to just give her a transcript.

“Ok,” she said, leaning a face against her hand, and massaging her temple with two fingers. “What exactly happened here?”

“Oh, Sienna, isn’t it obvious?” Alina sprawled coquettishly out on the giant pillow next to her. “They’re recounting a tale of true love-” an excited flutter overtook the woman’s ears, “surely even you’re not too reserved to see that, hmm~”

Sienna’s eye twitched. She could feel the hot breath falling on her cheek as the scantily clad faunus hovered just out of touching distance.

“Trying to get me to break composure? That’s so unlike you,” Sienna said dryly.

“But it gets so boring watching you sit here,” Alina returned to a cooler voice, reclining back away from Sienna. “The girls have been getting lonely without you, you know?” She crossed one bare foot over the other, and the slit in her dress-

“High Leader Khan!” A strong voice erupted from the opening gates, following a trailing figure as the Albain brothers came through.

It was amazing, Sienna noted, the speed and subtlety with which Alina managed to get into a more befitting pose, letting her long skirt cover her once more as she sat stiffly on her knees.

She nodded in acknowledgement of the brothers, as they, unheehing of the play, barreled through the troup to stand, and then bow, at the foot of the dais

“You are bold to interrupt her majesty, when she has requested there be no disturbances to her briefing.” Alina spoke now with that rich, magisterial voice which seemed to carry endless depth, and which worked well to intimidate the rattled faunus that still bowed, staring at the floor, before the pair.

“Forgive us. But the news we bring is urgent!” It was Fennec, who spoke, notable by the distinguishing marks of the red hood he wore.

Alina looked first to Sienna, deliberating silently with her.

At last, Sienna nodded, and Alina spoke on her behalf.

“You may speak,” Alina said.

Thankfully, Fennec was brief.

“Adam Taurus is dead, high counselor,” he said, voice seeming to collapse over the course of the sentence.

Alina’s face, as the woman reared back, was wide eyed at the news.

It was a subtle change in Alina’s expression, but Sienna could easily tell the shock in it, as she could feel the shock in her own.

Silence, Sienna knew, could speak louder than words in circumstances as these, and so she didn’t wait for Alina to speak on her behalf.

“Announce the death,” Sienna decided immediately. “Adam Taurus died in service to the White Fang. He is to be remembered with full honors, and let the council resolve that the White Fang shall wear mourning for the space of thirty days. Send communications to Vale, let the bereaved know of our stance.”

“And, of the recent news of the Atlas branch?”

“The Atlas branch was destroyed by the machinations of our enemies. We shall say nothing more of the matter.”

“Of course…”

“Is something the matter?”

“Adam Taurus had no family to speak off, High Counselor Khan. The only ‘Bereaved’ to speak of on record, is Blake Belladonna. In consideration of that, would you still send a letter her way?”

“It is proper to send a letter, and it shall be done. That is all.”

They bowed quietly, and soon left the chambers.

The Actors, noticing the look in Sienna Khan’s eyes, very quickly evacuated the area.

Even Alina, once she’d noticed the expression, hesitated before she spoke.

“Would it fit-”

“Not now, Alina,” Sienna said, with a great weight on her voice. “I’d like to be left alone.”

And Alina complied with the request, standing up wordlessly, and turning away on quiet footsteps.

Sienna Khan sat in the vast emptiness of her chamber, watching as the candle wax dripped steadily down the various candelabrum, noticing the shifting, undisturbed air currents that ghosted now throughout the room. It was by that sign she knew she was truly alone… but still, it wasn’t enough security for her.

So Sienna Khan stood, and left, going to the back of the room, where lay the path to the secreted, inner recesses of the palace.

The hallways from this point on were narrow and undefined, marked by bare walls and unmarked surfaces which told of a place abandoned by visitors.

The servants did not reach these parts, and Sienna was forced to rely on a small candle, held in the crux of her palm, to guide her way.

She passed through the narrow paths into a large stone corridor, knowing herself now to be several hundred feet below ground, as she marveled at the stone lions that guarded the room on either side.

Here, was a place of mourning, where none dared to come except by request of the Khan herself.

And still, Sienna was unsatisfied, and she traveled deeper into caverns, passing without acknowledgement the secret city, the hidden mineral springs, the discreet lava flows of heat generation and the mysterious hanging orchard until, at last, she reached the place she was looking for: the Khan’s chamber.

She shifted aside the four-ton granite block that guarded the chamber, stepping it in before grinding it securely back into place behind her.

The Khan’s chamber was a securely isolated vault. Built from a single, carved, stone boulder, it was a place with no access point for eavesdroppers, no nook for hidden technology, and no outsiders who even knew of it’s existence.

More than the practical considerations, however, were the religious connotations, which bolstered Sienna’s confidence that she was safe here. The Khan’s chamber was a relic, so sacred, that no faunus in the White Fang would have dared to enact any treachery while in its presence. And by that, Sienna knew herself to be safe from any prying voices.

The inside of the chamber was appropriately furnished, by the Khan herself, as very few others were allowed admittance into this place.

And it was not a hard room to fill, considering its size.

Ten feet stood to either side before being stopped by the solid granite of the walls. This space was made smaller by the thick padding of woven rugs and hanging tapestries that covered every surface with warm colors and golden weaves.

On the floor, a dozen rugs overlapped, creating a geometric, uneven surface that flickered in time with the continual dust fire that roared in the far back of the building space.

And the dust fire was the main object of her attention, now.

It glowed brightly in her vision, turning the peripheral walls into relative darkness, and seeming to extend the apparant size of the room infinitely by that hidden trick.

Two rows of statues extended out from the back wall, lining the path to the fire place like a frozen procession, depicting the deceased Khans which had come before her. Their features were stark as they looked at her with stone expressions, and they each extended a hand out to the space in between them, palms facing her, as if forming a canopy over the fireplace.

Sienna knew the meaning of the statutes. They were there to remind her of the legacy she’d inherited. They were raising their hands to her, without the swords that would normally accompany such a gesture, to remind her of the purpose of power. Ghira had a quite different interpretation, she recalled, looking up at the towering statue of the man: the most recent edition.

Sienna sighed a deep breath, soaking in the magical aura of the space, and feeling an almost exhilarating warmth come over her.

She took another deep breath, and exhaled, and another deep breath, closing her eyes as she pondered the deep news.

Taking another meditative breath in the dim darkness behind her eyelids, Sienna at last opened up her eyes, faced the quiet room, and whooped with joy.

“Whooo!” Sienna leapt up with a small hop, lifting her raised arm into the air and the landing to pump both of her fists in a victorious gesture. “Yessssss!” she punctuated the motion by.

She suddenly extended into a straight stand, pointing triumphantly at the line of statutes.

“Adam’s dead, motherfuckers!” she yelled. “Yeah! Uh, huh! Uh, huh! Who’s the best? This gal!” She pointed at herself with two thumbs, all the while dancing over to the open mouth of the procession.

Once there, she began to walk between the stone rows, clapping hands with the raised palms of the statutes. “Yeah! High five! High five! High five! High five! Not you, Ghira!” she twirled past the statue of Ghira after making motions to almost supply it with a high five.

Without missing a beat, she picked up a red dust crystal from the storage bowl, tossing it into the glowing fire. She’d already walked past the flame by the time the dust crystal clanged into the metal bowl which held it, and she only had time to appreciate the sudden brightening of the room for a moment before she noticed her secret wine stash, right next to her ant farm.

She jumped back into the hastily assembled hill of mattresses and pillows, all the while pouring herself a glass of one-thousand year old wine, brewed from the ancient crypts of the Zagaros hyper-

Actually, she decided in the middle of her recitation, she really didn’t care. All she knew was that it was time to get drunk!

She swirled the drink about in its container, looking aside at the sizable queens chamber that had developed in her ant-farm.

“You know,” she said, speaking to the queen, “I think today has been a great day for faunus kind. Especially this faunus,” and she took a sip.

* * *

Adam was dead, and Qrow was hunting for his collaborator.

Qrow was under magnificent auspices, all his life.

Too many of them, he’d long ago decided.

Still, his burden was not easily shifted, and his heart drove him to correct what his duty would have let him neglect.

Qrow felt a thermal rising, puffing itself up against his outstretched wings like a soft force against gravity, and, very lightly, he was lifted up along with it. Below him, the shrouded woodlands of the easter forest belted by beneath him, each leaf of each tree crisply apparent to his new eyes.

Qrow hadn’t taken his usual form.

A crow would just be what his sister was looking for.

No, as far as the rest of the world was concerned, Qrow was an ordinary gauss hawk. And he worked very hard to appear as little more than that.

Despite his still active aura, he kept to manageable speeds, and seemed to drift more on chaotic currents, than to cut through with the lightning power strokes he knew to be stored in his faintly enforced body.

Raven… she’d gone too far this time. And he needed to look inconsequential if he was ever going to find her.

He’d been flying now, for several days, and the hawk mind that contended with his own didn’t offer much in the way of conversation. It was a solitary animal, by nature, and seemed to be quite enjoying the lack of company or competition.

Not that qrow minded, he quite liked the seclusion himself. Besides, the hawk mind was never really one for riveting conversation. Often it only peeked through his subconscious whenever it felt threatened by something, or whenever it sensed Qrow was making an unforgivable flying mistake. Of course, Qrow considered himself an Ace flyer at this point, finally having managed to shrug off the judgemental niggle in the back of his mind, whenever the hawk sensed he could afford to trim some distance off his turning radius.

Qrow laughed.

Taiyang had two kids and a happy family, and here Qrow was, annoyed at the rude hawk in his head.

Qrow wondered when his life had taken that final dip into the weird. He’d first pondered this question on his second day into his recent journey, and hadn’t stopped thinking of it since.

Finally, though, he managed to track down the moment: the moment when his life turned into what it had.

* * *

Qrow stood lonely atop the city spire, looking down plaintively at the city of vale.

Near him, Raven stood, watching the bright wash of autumnal leaves raining down onto the city below.

Qrow tried and failed to take in the sight, feeling sick to his stomach.

Ozpin had made no varnish of the warnings he’d given them last night. Despite all they’d already been told about Salem and the grimm, tonight was the night, as Ozpin had put it, when the most terrible powers would be revealed to them.

Qrow looked away from his sister in silence. His butterflying stomach nearly leaping out of him when he heard the soft footsteps of Ozpin approaching.

The man could be quite a bit stealthier than he was being. He wanted them to know he was coming, Qrow guessed. And a good thing, too. Qrow imagined that he’d be the first to leap off this tower if he suddenly appeared behind him, as the eccentric man sometimes had a habit of doing.

“Qrow, Raven,” Ozpin called quietly as he came to stand in between them, leaning on a cane in one hand and raising a mug in the other as he looked coldly at the distant horizon.

“Yes?” Raven asked.

“Yes, sir?”

“Have you… ever wondered what it would be like to be a bird?”

“What?” Raven asked,

“What?” Qrow asked.

* * *

And Qrow’s life had never been the same.

Granted, it wasn’t a very useful power for fighting, considering hunters were to the food-chain what a howitzer was to the food-chain, but flying was still pretty sweet, Qrow had to admit.

And, looking suddenly off to the side, Qrow almost didn't want to believe the hawk eyes, which made the world seem unnaturally apparent even when it lay as a small spot, miles away.

Because there he saw Raven.

And Salem was there, too...

* * *

**Also: special ackgnowledgements to**[DahakStaz](https://forums.spacebattles.com/members/dahakstaz.387265/), [gadeel](https://forums.spacebattles.com/members/gadeel.33485/), [Kamzil118](https://forums.spacebattles.com/members/kamzil118.322196/), [Centergg](https://forums.spacebattles.com/members/centergg.316484/), and [BuffetAnarchist](https://forums.spacebattles.com/members/buffetanarchist.314969/) for inspiring this reaction chapter with their suggestions.

So, you know who to blame if it sucks.


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36**

* * *

Adam was dead, and Yang’s scroll was running out of battery.

“So, you’re sure everything’s safe?” Taiyang’s voice rang hollow and distorted through the underpowered scroll speaker. “Is everything ok over there? I tried to call Ruby but she’s not picking up. And your other team mates aren’t either.”

Yang hunched down onto her rain soaked bed, and looked down at the screen with her father’s worried face on it with regard.

“Wait… you have Weiss and Blake's scroll numbers?” she asked, noticing the incongruity.

“Oh, I looked them up.”

“Why would you do that?” Yang said, sufficiently weirded out that horror overtook her curiosity.

“In case of emergencies!”

“Well, we’re fine anyway, dad,” Yang scowled, trying not to scowl any harder as the other cold drop of rainwater leaked through the insubstantial roof onto her head.

“But, what about-”

“Look, dad, my Scroll’s, like, on three percent, and I don’t have a charger here” Yang said, tilting the device to check, “can you make this quick?”

“Why don’t you just call Ruby and ask her for one?”

“Because she’s not picking up!” Yang said, finally letting through a little bit of the frustration that had been building up inside of her.

“Ohh, that’s… yeah,” Taiyang sympathised.

Yang sighed. “So… can we talk about this later?”

“Of course, I just wanted to make sure you had someplace to stay.”

“Yeah, I’m staying at the castle,” Yang said, growing impatient.

“And you’re not going to be kicked out?”

“Apparently not.”

“Because, If you are I can pick you up. Or, I can just call Mr. Schnee-”

“No! Just, look, dad, everythings fine. Let me go to bed, now?”

“Ok, sweetie,” Taiyang said reluctantly. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

And the scroll powered off in her hand, flashing red with low battery markers, and Yang leant back against her surprisingly dry mattress, looking up into the brief specks of sky visible through the dilapidated roofing material, trying to stay calm until another cold drip of water fell onto her face, straying down her cheek like an icy tear that whispered promises of sleepless nights to the girl.

Yang briefly pondered whether it wouldn’t just be better to jump the wall and stay in a hotel somewhere… or at least a sufficiently dry tree.

* * *

Tyrian was dead, and Torchwick didn’t care.

At least, he didn’t care on a personal level. Philosophically, the death was an ill timed reminder of mortality for Torchwick, now that he’d been designated the lead reporter on the curious case of how they’d failed to kill Mr. Schnee.

Emerald stood behind him sobbing against a wall over Cinder’s memory. Torchwich would have consoled her with the fact that, all things considered, Cinder was probably still alive. Or, Torchwick would have consoled her if he’d cared… which he didn’t. And he had bigger issues on his mental plate anyhow, like how he was responsible for reporting the second failure in a row to Salem, who’s continuing good mood seemed ever on the verge of shattering into a murder spree with him as the primary target.

He looked down at himself, and then back up at the bone-white entrance of Salem’s tent. The heavy flaps hung closed in front of him.

Looking back, he noticed the clustered group of hunters as they stood around in their solitary spaces, trying to look at anywhere except the tent. Neo was standing closest to him, which was saying a lot considering she was still twelve meters away.

It appeared everyone had forecast an explosive death for Torchwick.

Eh, there were worse ways to go, Torchwick decided with a shrug, and pushed his way into the tent.

“Report,” Salem said, sitting at her desk and writing something in a language Torchwick neither understood or had ever even seen before.

“Uh… the mission came into some trouble. While we achieved most of the objectives, Mr. Schnee remains alive.”

“Mr. Schnee?” Salem asked, looking up at him, quill frozen over her parchment. “Who in the world is Mr. Schnee?”

“Uh… the richest man in the world? We were going to kill him...” Torchwick explained

“Why?” Salem asked.

“Because… to be honest… actually, you know what? Nevermind. Forget I brought it up,” Torchwick said, easily, acclimating the change of circumstance.

“I will,” Salem answered, making motions to return to her writing when a sudden thought struck her. “Actually,” she called Torchwick back, who, already turned away from her, had been hurting towards the exit. “Before I forget, call Raven here. I want the entire village assembled.”

Torchwich, paused in a brief motion, exhaled in relief as he turned to smile at the woman. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll have everyone ready.”

* * *

Everyone was early to the meeting, as evidenced by the time they had to wait before Salem showed up.

Raven and several of her guards shored up the east side of the hill, while Torchwick and his crew took the west.

Between them was Salem; she was looking south, at Raven’s village.

She had trailed off of her congratulatory speech commending Raven for her recent efforts, stopping the conversation entirely and leaving the groups in an uncomfortable silence as she turned away from Raven and her guards, and began staring intensely at the wooden village.

“Uh, Salem, mam” Torchwick said after the fourth minute of continual silence. “I don't mean to interrupt, but you were just saying about the rewards?”

“Rewards?” Salem asked, “rewards to whom?” not looking away from the bright sunbeams that peeked through the near wall of the village.

“To Raven,” Torchwick answered, “for her help, recently, with the attack.”

“Yes, yes,” Salem said absentmindedly. And again, there fell a silence, one no one could gather the courage to break as they instead looked over at the village, trying to find in it something that could have enamored Salem’s attention so.

And, despite the keen eyes that had been trained onto it, none found anything of particular note.

From their vantage point atop the hill, they could see quite well into the town center, and found nothing there that was out of the ordinary for a periphery village. It was merely a group of wooden buildings, with metal dust containers dispersed through the usual places, and all the other amenities of communal living like various sized trash cans, outdoor prison cells and leather-optimised cleaners.

It was Salem, at last, who managed to break the silence, and she spoke slowly, not looking away from the apparently hypnotic sight as she addressed the rest of them.

“I’m deliberating…” she said, “whether I should destroy this village or not.”

Everyone stiffened at the cold, serious words. Most especially Raven who, without her mask, let nothing hide from the fearful trembling that took her eyes.

“Oh, yes, I know, I know,” Salem interrupted Torchwick’s protests with a raised hand. “It would be betraying a useful ally, and it wouldn’t do anything to further my plans, and It would be wrong.” Raven turned suddenly beginning at a slow pace, speaking sarcastically the preempted protests. “I know exactly how little I would gain by destroying this little village, and I’m aware of how much there is to lose by doing so. I know how quickly legends spread among humans, and how relentlessly they can be remembered; even a thousand years from now this mark of treachery could reduce any person's willingness to aid me.

“I’m even aware of how bringing up this topic has hurt my rapport with the rest of you,” she gestured idly to Torchwick and company. “I know that if I destroy this village, you’ll no longer be able to look upon me as able to deliver upon what I’ve promised you! Then, you’d be useless to me. Not to mention, I’d have to kill you so that you didn’t tell anyone about my tendency to betray people.”

Salem said that last line casually, a stark juxtaposition with the bone rattling terror that now overtook her team.

“Don’t bother trying to run away, by the way,” she added absentmindedly, the majority of her thoughts still laying with the vilage. “I’d just hunt you down and kill you slower than I otherwise would have. And, I’m willing to spend years tracking you if need be. Remember that groaning that comes out of my dungeons? That’s someone who thought she could escape me. She’s been there for twenty years.” Salem said all of this at once, dropping the tidbit as if she were thinking of too many important things, and needed to talk to free up room in her mind.

She hardly noticed the sudden paling that took over everyone that was listening.

“Still… just, look at it!” she stopped her pacing to gesture at the village.

Everyone looked at it, still failing to see anything worth looking at.

“It’s such an edifice of order!” Salem said, turning to them by way of explanation. “It’s a standing city in the middle of a forest! They even built a wall around it! How can anyone expect indolence of me, when they've covered themselves with defenses?”

A sudden motion to her right caught her off guard, and Salem was surprised to see Raven kneeling before her on one knee, sword stabbed into the ground. “Please,” Raven said coolly, “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Oh, you’re just making it worse!” Salem said. “I mean, you make a village and then fill it with people, and then beg me not to destroy it? You’re simply begging for me to destroy it! I mean, just look at those crowds looking up at us, they’re even cradling children, some of them!

“Ah, I could just cut them all up.”

Salem gestured down at the city, where a sudden crowd had gathered to look up upon their meeting.

“I…” Raven paused, eyes flashing wildly as she looked down at the ground, still kneeling.

Salem sucked a pained breath, shaking her head as she paced stiffly back now through her more maniac pace. She even turned away from the city, trying to fight the temptation, and evidently losing, to tell by the giddy smile that turned up her cheeks, and the flaming ball that warmed lit up in her hands.

And, though she hardly noticed it, facing away from the village as she currently was, a sudden creaking became apparent in the village walls, as one of the water towers began tilting, and leaning painedly over.

Salem, hearing the noise, turned around with a horrified expression as the water tower fell, exploding open into a torrent of water that knocked down several buildings and sent the gathered crowd streaming to the edges as the miniature tidal wave washed over the village. The crashing water apparently disturbed some of the metal tank containers, setting off several small explosions and some small fires, which set the water boiling as several people moved to fight it.

The growing fire quickly spread along the small electrical network, setting several sparks raining down onto whatever dry bits of thatch had been gathered as animal feed, and setting sections of wall on fire just in time for another dust explosion to rock through the space.

The walls, as well as the soggy, flame blackened, buildings they guarded, now stood as a parody of a standing city.

Still, the people, though shocked, were for the most part unharmed.

Salem was disgusted. “… shoddy workmanship,” she snarled at the apparent bad design and unworthy craftsmanship of the city. “It’s broken now, anyway.” She extinguished the flame in her hand, and turned quickly away. “Activate the flying machine, Torchwick,” Salem commanded. “We’re leaving.”

And, like that, Raven was left alone, with her two guards, atop the quiet hill.

She looked in wonderment at the sudden turn of good luck,

Or… looking at it more immediately, bad luck, she noted, as she looked at the havoc and destruction that had just saved her village.

And she looked up, suddenly, watching as a brown hawk flew high in the air.

“I didn’t do it by choice!” she yelled up at the figure, cupping her hands around her mouth, not caring about the strange looks her guards sent her.

A quiet screech was her answer, filled with human understanding, and the hawk banked, and turned away, cutting through the wind at sound breaking speeds.

* * *

Hah, more like midshipman of industry, Mr. S thought as walked away from the man who, now that they parted, yelled over encouraging signs of their future friendship.

These were a type Mr. S found himself dealing with a lot in his current position as the world's richest man.

In short, they were big in their small pond, needed money, and simultaneously tried to kiss ass and boast.

In all, not a great look.

Still, today, Mr. S bore it with grace, mainly because he’d woken up to some very good news.

You see, the Fall Maiden was arriving today; and her reception party was catered.

The second bit of good news came from Weiss, yesterday, when she’d explained that an anniversary party wouldn’t make sense because the Winter festival was coming up, and the week long celebration that entailed would make an anniversary celebration pointless.

And you bet your Hannuka that was getting catered, if Mr. S had anything to say about it.

And the final bit of good news was more incidental. They’d dredged his gun up from the crater ice block, and it had finally finished repairs.

Still, there was a temper to Mr. S’s good mood however, mainly related to his constant anguish about the fact that the Fall Maiden wasn’t here yet.

Again, he looked at the clock -- yep, still 12:25.

“Schwarz, when is the Fall Maiden arriving?” Mr. S asked for the fourth time that minute.

“She should be here around noon.”

“It is noon.” Mr. S pointed out.

“Delays aren’t unexpected,” Schwarz said, hardly looking up from her tablet as she walked alongside him.

“Still-” Mr. S let the silence finish his sentence, as he walked into Dr. Polendina’s office. For the first time getting a look at the man, as well as at the wondrous gadgets and sculptures that decorated his office. “Woah,” Mr. S felt the words pulled from him as he paused in the entrance way, looking around him. It was all so beautiful!

And of everything, perhaps the most beautiful thing in the room, may have been the sight of Dr. Polendina himself. Mr. S almost yipped in appreciation as the man walked in on his articulated tank chair.

“Don’t look too amazed,” Polendina laughed, hearty chuckle shaking him as he looked over at the pair, “you are the one who paid for most of it, anyhow.”

Mr. S looked down at him, forgetting how his new face naturally fell into cold observations whenever he wasn’t focusing it.

“Uh hm,” Polendina coughed awkwardly. “Anyway, about Riére,” he turned suddenly, making space for them as he led them to the far back, where a glass lidded machine housed the shining gun, which was lit up under a bright fluorescence as if on display. “I’m happy to say he made out fine,” the doctor laughed, patting the glass lid. “A few scuffs here and there, sure, but I ran every test there was to run and I can say with confidence that, yes, he’s made it out fine. The main barrel hasn’t suffered any irreversible deformation, and even the rifling was pristine. All he needed was a bit of recalibration, and some minor realignment in the external structure, yes sir.

“And, actually, I must commend you on the design work,” Dr. Polendina said, “an fcc skin with a bcc interior: it’s not too easy to get those two types to work together, and not many hunters would appreciate the design considerations.”

Mr. S looked at the man as if he could hug him.

Have you ever just met someone whose words you loved? Have you ever spent days on studying, and then talking with people who exclusively used business lingo only to finally meet a human who spoke your language! Well, Mr. S did, and he felt very eager to make this man’s acquaintance. Whatever it took, he was going to become friends with this man, or at least he’d pay him for regular conversation.

So, it didn’t help Mr. S's cause that he wasn’t talking, or listening, in due to admiring the man.

“...Mr. Schnee.”

“Uh, yes?” Mr. S shook his head, coming to.

“Your weapon is ready,” Schwarz said.

At her words, the glass lid covering Riére popped open with a vacuum seal, releasing a rich smell of iodized metal.

“Yes,” Mr. S said mechanically, as he took the weapon. “What were you saying?” he directed the question at Polendina. Still trying to start up a conversation, and possible friendship as he holstered the weapon.

“Oh, I was merely saying how I admired your weapons design,” Polendina replied. “It’s a very well thought out schematic.”

“Ah,” Mr. S nodded. “Yes, uh, well, I’m something of an engineer myself.”

“Oh, really,” the doctor nodded, in a tone that was too polite to sound more incredulous.

“Yes,” Mr. S looked around. “I’m actually rather taken with this laboratory of yours. You’ll have to give me a tour sometimes.”

“Well, this is more of a workshop, really,” Polendina said, abashed. “I really only come here whenever I have some major work to be done in the castle.”

“What’s this, then?” Mr. S walked, as if attracted, towards a metal shelf that lined the side wall. The shelf was one of many stacked upon the walls, and the item upon it was barely distinguishable in the cluttered workspace. Still, something about it seemed notable to Mr. S.

Drawing closer, Mr. S was better able to make it out, and could actually see the vaguely humanoid outline. It was a torso, he realized at last, when he’d drawn close enough that the shelf arrested his movement. And the torso was missing it’s arms: it’s lower arms, anyway. Other than that, it was hardly distinguishable from the chrome and dust lit objects that lined the shelf space around it.

Mr. S leaned in for a closer look, ignoring the similarly colored tools and gadgets that filled the shelf space around it.

It had no skin, and bare metal was harsh and black as it rose up with the protruding cheekbones. Rare diodes glimmered against the black metal exterior, strung out like tattoos on the black skin, creating an uncanny expression with the lipless, white, and very human teeth that decorated the mouth.

It’s eyes were emerald green and unblinking.

“That,” the doctor answered, walking up behind him with robotic whirs of his servomotic chair, “is Penny.”

“Penny?” Mr. S asked.

“Yes, her,” Polendina continued, mistaking the nature of Mr. S’s confusion, and giving him warning, subtly, not to ask any more questions. “She was the first machine with an Aura, and I still haven’t been able to bring her back to life.”

Mr. S thought it strange, the particular language Dr. Polendina employed when referring to the machine; but he didn’t question it. Goodness knows how many pointless things he himself had personified over the course of his life. Still, the pain he sensed in the man’s voice seemed overdue. “You know, I hate to see her here,” Polendina said, suddenly. “I wish everyday that I could hide her body, bury it somewhere, and never have to look at it again. But, something just won’t let me quit.” One of the chair’s robotic legs stamped down in frustration at that, sending a slight rumble through the wooden floors of the workshop.

“Well, it’s no shame,” Mr. S said, for lack of anything else to console the man with. “As you said, she was the first machine with an aura. Her soul must have been irreplaceable.” Mr. S defaulted to that flowery language used when speaking for the dead, trying not to disparage the genuine sadness the doctor seemed to feel.

“Ha!” Polendina laughed a pained laugh. “Oh no, the aura generation is trivial, at this point,” he clarified. “If only that had been the problem, then maybe I would have called that a fitting end.”

Mr. S followed the doctor’s lost gaze, to the motionless torso that stared blankly up at the shelf above it. “What is the problem?” he asked, curious.”

“Her memory,” doctor Polendina answered. “Her… power units were damaged by a powerful magnetic pulse. It… created volatile conditions inside her hardware. I’ve thought of every way we can read the data back out, but…” he slammed his fist down onto the chair’s handrest. “I’m stuck. Trying to read from the disk would only destroy it!”

Mr. S felt incredulity rising at the very strange set of circumstances, but didn’t have the bravery to ask revealing questions quite so blatantly yet.

“Sir,” that was Schwarz who drew his attention, and Mr. S turned to look over at her, watching as she sensed the news on her tablet.

“Yes?” he answered.

“The Fall Maiden has arrived.”

* * *

“And this,” Weiss gestured to the flashing, darkly lit arcade, “is the game room.”

“Huh! Is that destructor disk 2?” Ruby pointed at a large holographic with exaggerated happiness. “Look, Blake!” Ruby said, ponting at the dark interior with a swell tone, “an arcade! You want to play it?” she ventured to ask nicely, hugging Blake across the shoulders.

Weiss stood nervously off to the side, watching the pair intently while trying to maintain an incidental appearance: one that said, I’m not overbearing, and I’m totally willing to comply with your requests to not make a big deal out of this. After all, why would I care if you ran off crying and asking me not to follow?

Blake sighed, trying very hard to show her appreciativeness at her teammate’s awkward attempts at cheering her up, and to hide the shrinking efficacy with which their increasingly ill-suited suggestions were accomplishing that task.

“Thanks guys,” Blake said at last, with a smile so small it couldn’t have ben forced. “I’m not really into arcades, though. Maybe we can just take a break from all this? I kind of wanted-”

Weiss sent Ruby a death glare.

And Ruby jumped at the prompt. “No!” she said, chuckling nervously and sending worried looks at the increasingly stern Weiss. “How about we go take a tour of the castle… again.”

“That’s a wonderful idea, Ruby,” Weiss said, leaping into the conversation with great satisfaction. “How about we go look at the dining room? Maybe we talk about our feelings on the way there? Not that I’m forcing you to do that,” she quickly retracted. “I’m absolutely fine with keeping our private lives separate, but it might be a helpful excersise. How about we put it to a vote?”

Weiss raised her hand, and like a marionette, Ruby’s hand followed with hesitant delay.”

Blake looked down at the floor, wondering if she didn’t somehow deserve this.

Ruby sighed.

And Weiss smiled, leading the way.

Soon, they found themselves in the outdoor dining room, managing to get there before Ruby had finished even her small part of the emotional exercise, having gotten more into it than she’d first suspected she would.

“--so, anyway, It’s always been kind of hard telling Yang that I really see her more than as a half-sister. I mean, just because Raven was her biological mother, doesn’t mean she has any special rights, right? And it always kind of hurts whenever she ignores the rest of us to go chasing after her. I mean, doesn’t the time we spent together mean more than some gene-”

“Ok, Ruby, that’s very nice,” Weiss raised a hand politely. “But, how about we give Blake her turn? I mean, it’s obvious she’s going through a lot, lately.” Weiss crossed her arms, now directing a pointed glare in Blake’s direction, and not hiding anymore her great frustration with her girlfriend.

Ruby pouted, and so did Blake.

“I’m fine,” Blake said shortly, looking painedly away from Weiss at the declaration.

Weiss, on the verge of yelling and demonstrating to Blake how Winter handled such situations, felt herself stopped by the new scenery as the dining room walls opened as well as the pair of voices that inhabited the inside.

Or, rather outside, as the schematics would have shown. For, looking to the far wall, it was easy to see why they called it the outdoor dining room.

It wasn’t truly outdoors, but one entire wall was missing, replaced by a series of wide arches that opened up to a fresh air balcony.

Clear glass filled the space inside the arches, and the noon-day sun streamed powerfully through, lighting the room and bringing stunning views of the green, garden -grass below.

Off to the side, setting the tables today, Farbe was conversing idly with one of the older maids.

“--no!” the older maid said, “they hate each other! Especially since the younger brother got disinherited.”

“Didn’t he show back up to the recent family reunion, though? He even said he wanted to mend relations and spend more time together,” Farbe questioned naively.

“Oh, ho!’ the older maid chuckled. “Trust me, that situation has ‘hunting accident’ written all over it!”

“You’re terrible!” Farbe laughed, joining her.

“Anyway, I was saying it’s quite like the new Fall Maiden situation. I have no idea how Ozpin managed to convince Mr. Schnee of all people to let a Nikos stay here, but-”

“Excuse me,” Weiss stern voice cut off their conversation abruptly, as they both silenced and turned to face the girl who was now suddenly standing behind them. Blake and Ruby stood still at the doorway. A line of fluttering tablecloths lay behind Weiss, leading back to them, and giving tell to the sudden air-stream she’d generated in her recent travels. “What were you saying, just now, about my father?” Weiss asked.

“Uh, that he doesn’t get along well with Niko-”

“No, no,” Weiss hastily corrected, Blake and Ruby had caught up to her now. “I meant about the Fall Maiden. You said she would be staying here?”

“Yes,” Farbe nodded with a polite smile. “She’s staying as an honored guest -- arriving today, in fact.”

In contrast to the ever polite Farbe, Weiss did not fail to note the scant look the older maid had directed in Blakes direction, and she felt an urge to do something that would mortify Blake out of her silence.

Weiss shook her head. Don’t fraternize with the help, she told herself. And yelling at them probably counted.

“Where is my father?” Weiss directed the question at Farbe, hoping to get out of here as soon as possible.

“He’s in the garden,” Farbe gestured out of the arches into the sunlight. “They’re setting up preparations for the welcoming party.”

“Thank you,” Weiss said, very politely and very pointedly directing her exclusive thanks to Farbe. “Let’s go,” she said, at once standing back up and walking towards the window arches. Once there, she opened the large, door-like, windows in between the arches and walked out onto the large, open-air hallway that stretched around the second-floor level of the garden wall.

And there, several feet before her, was another safety rail between another pair of marble arches.

Looking over the stone railing, she could see a large attendance had indeed been gathered in the garden, and all of them were looking up at the skies for some invisible sign.

Weiss didn’t slow her step as she placed a hand on the rain-slicked stone of the railing, lifted herself over the balcony, and dropped twelve feet onto the garden grounds below.

A sudden, heavy thud of heels into grass alerted Mr. S to the sudden presence behind him. Turning away briefly from the skyward view he’d maintained, Mr. S found himself in a position better able to appreciate the scheduled, 12:00 glare Weiss was pointing in his direction, as she excavated her heels out from the soft mud of the garden they’d been buried into, moving just in time to avoid her teammates, who dropped in after her.

Mr. S didn’t even bother to ask what he’d done, now. He was certain she wasn’t going to leave him in ignorance.

The rain had quite deliberately melted much of the snow that previously covered the courtyard. And it hurt Mr. S to think he was walking on the surface in five hundred Lien shoes.

Then again, he was holding a catered grain bowl in his hand, so…

“Why didn’t you tell me the Fall Maiden was going to be arriving?” Weiss demanded, stomping her way over to him, and sending speckles of mud splattering everywhere with each footstep.

“Did you want to know?” Mr. S asked, slightly confused.

“Of course I wanted to know!” Weiss yelled. “Pyrrha's one of my friends!”

“I wasn’t aware that you knew her,” Mr. S answered easily, fully comfortable, now, with the volume of conversation Weiss often chose to engage in.

Weiss, hand paused in a raised position, resisted her own indignant motions as she realized that that was actually a good point. Still, she wasn’t one to waste good anger. “That doesn’t matter,” Weiss denied. “Even if I didn’t know her, I’d still want to see the arrival of Maiden!”

“We have a maiden at home!” Mr. S gestured indignantly over to Winter, who suddenly turned to face them from where she’d been perusing the fruit stands with an arm behind her back.

“She doesn’t count!” Weiss said, gesturing over to the same woman, who didn’t show much more than military restraint, and a desire to show Weiss how Winter handled such situations.

All further display of words and slapter were halted, however, as a sudden rise in the murmur of the crowd, and a speeding wind, heralded the arrival of the intercontinental bullhead.

It seemed very small, in the distance, but everyone was rapidly freed of that illusion as it flew lower, and grew to take up half the sky.

It seemed quite gentle, the delicate way it hung in the air.

It’s airstreams, on the other hand, were quite a different story.

Mr. S had been a pilot back on earth. Not professionally, but he had a license. Wild, that the guy who loved aerospace so much he became an aero engineer would like flying. And, this meant that he was personally, as well as theoretically, sensitive of the very, very small relative thrust the Bullheads of Remnant seemed to use in order to get around.

Because, you see, most bull heads were in the ten ton category. And, in order for a ten ton vehicle to hover, it would need to blow down ten tons of air at 1 g. At least, that had been the conclusion of the physics Mr. S had learned. Here though, apparently, some ‘gravity’ or ‘wind’ dust was enough to ‘counteract’ it, somehow. Mr. S hadn’t yet gathered the time to get into the nitty-gritty of the whole issue, but he’d seen enough to convince himself that this was the case.

The aforementioned ten ten bullheads they’d used to bring the wedding guests over two nights ago were one example that convinced him. Despite being ten tons, and despite landing directly in the garden grounds, they’d barely stirred up a wiffle. Apparently, the pilots had used extra wind dust to, presumably, supercharge the reality compensators they carried around with them.

Here, though, we return to the present. Because, the Bullhead that the Fall Maiden was arriving in was a hundred tonner, and man were the pilots not using enough wind dust.

Despite the fact that they’d chosen to land the heavily armored vehicle in the far corner of the garden wall, the winds were fantastic. A black spray ejected up into the air, splattering the vehicle and near walls with mud and engine exhaust, as a steady stream of heated air barreled its way across the garden, slamming into the reception and knocking over one of the buffet tables.

And it grew to suddenly be very warm in the area, as an artificially dry heat encompassed the group.

Not that Mr. S cared, he’d already eaten; at this point, the rest of the reception was icing, as far as he was concerned.

The servants, however, had vastly different priorities, and hurried to roll out the carpet and assemble the various flags and banners appropriate to such an occasion.

Half the flags were Schnee banners, Mr. S recognized, flowing strongly in the sudden wind that had been kicked up by the bullhead. Every other spot, however, was taken by a rather foreign design. A white background marked by a red circle, though which speared a… leaf-spear, Mr. S could only call.

Over in the far corner, the engines powered down, and the Bullhead, at last, settled onto its suspension.

The bullhead, contrary to it’s very close ranging effects, was still in the far, far distance of the garden, having chosen a distant corner to nestle into. And, despite the extreme effects felt on their end, everyone still couldn’t help but take a moment to notice the unusually destructive landing of the vehicle. The corner it lay in was absolutely caked in a thick layer of topsoil. Even from here, it was plain to notice the expanded mud crater the Bullhead had formed around itself, as well as the glistening body of worms that trawled their way through the newly exposed dirt.

Of course, these worms, being the guardians of such an illustrious garden, were actually specially imported from the island of patch, giving tender care to the various tropicana that marked the garden.

And, some of them, or some bits of them had even landed on Ruby.

“Ohh!” She picked up the still living-half of worm that had landed on her shoulder, looking at it with wide eyes. “Are these imported from patch?” she asked.

“Uh, yes,” Schwarz raised an eyebrow at the question, unaware there was anyone on Remnant but her and the gardener that knew, or cared to know, that fact.

“Oh, wow, you know I used to take field trips to work in the worm farms when I was in school there! They never let us keep any of the worms though,” she said looking up absentmindedly. “Come to think of it, I never saw any workers there, either. And going there biweekly for eight hour days was a bit much, too, actually.”

“Ruby…” Weiss said worriedly, “did… they actually teach you anything at this school?”

“What, yeah, of course they did!” Ruby answered enthusiastically. “We only went to the worm mines in summer, you know! They taught us all of the important subjects! Like: metal work, lace work, factory floor management, air-conditioner repair, the occasional coal mining-” Ruby stopped, self conscious at the horrified looks that were being sent her direction from all parties.

“And… math, science, history?” Weiss asked. “Did they teach you any of these things?”

“Well… it was a very arty school,” Ruby replied.

“An arty school that does coal mining and air conditioner repair?” Weiss asked.

“They had a library too, you know. I read a lot of textbooks about everything, since we had to pass the island standards. They just didn’t let us read during craft time, is all.”

“And… did they actually let you, you know, keep any of these crafts?” Weiss asked.

“Well… no, they were usually shipped off after we packaged them,” Ruby answered, “but-”

“Look, I don’t want to hear this anymore,” Weiss interrupted her with a waived hand. “We’re getting you a tutor, Ruby; and Yang, too. Father, can we get them a tutor?”

“Yes,” Mr. S nodded immediately, looking with wide eyed horror at the girl.

And that was that, as Weiss finalized the decision with a decisive nod. Off in the distance, the workers finally reached the bullhead, unrolling the foot of the rug at its presence, and preparing the grounds for the opening ramp.

“Come on, me and Yang we don’t need to tutor,” Ruby replied.

“Yang and I,” Ruby, “Yang and I,” Weiss massaged her eyelids at the second big problem of the morning.

“Whatever,” Ruby said, “the point is, we don’t need a tutor! I mean, Yang didn’t even go worm hunting with us! She hated it when they got into her hair- Oh no!”

Ruby suddenly yelled, turning to the corner that the bullhead had landed in, and reminding everyone how they’d left Yang there inside a hovel there last night.

“Schwarz went into immediate action, nigh-teleporting to the space and immediately searching around the flattened bit of ground where the hovel used to be.

“Yang!” Ruby yelled, joining her and yelling into the air with waving arms. “Are you alive!”

Schwarz was looking elsewhere, looking delicately at the wall, far too experienced in the art of peeling people off said wall.

Apparently, Yang had answered, for they both soon turned their attention to a rear section of the Bullhead’s right landing ski.

Ruby and Schwarz looked at eachother with amazement, before looking back at the Bullhead’s skiff.

After a moment of panicked deliberation, they soon both decided on a plan and set to motion. Schwarz went to the section of skiff where, apparently, Yang had gotten herself pressed into the mud, and Ruby counted down.

“Three, two, one!” Ruby’s voice called through the distant air, at which point Schwarz lifted up the section of skiff, lightly rocking the ship as she shifted the landing skiff up against it’s suspension. Ruby quickly went under, catching hold of her sister and dragging her out onto open mud.

Yang lay there for a long while before she moved.

...

“It’s ok,” Ruby whispered calming words to her shivering sister as they approached the group. “Schwarz says you can come out in front of the line, now, since Winter is here.”

“I… I tried really hard to stay behind the line,” Yang said, voice weak, and leaning heavily, against her sister. Ruby, for her part, did not seem to mind the copious mud that streaked onto her from the contact.

“Yes, and we’re very proud of you,” Ruby told her.

Mr. S was aghast.

“I thought I told you to get her out of there!” he said to Schwarz, gesturing to ground zero.

“I did!” Schwarz defended herself. “Or, I thought I did, anyhow. I sent her a text saying she was free to come out into the garden once noon hit.”

Yang brought two shaking hands up to her face, watching the thick cake of mud that fell off their shaking forms. She took a clump of her hair in between her fingers, bringing up to her eyes with an instinctive movement, meant to aid her in discerning even the slightest blemish that might have gotten onto them. Here, she was using that skill to find even a single strand that wasn’t caked in it.

She dropped the lock, letting it hang heavily against the rest of her mud splattered hair. “I…” she began slowly. “My scroll was out of power, and I didn’t have a charger” she said. “I asked you for one, sis,” she turned a hopeful look at Ruby. “You didn’t pick up.”

“Oh… sorry!” Ruby apologized, smacking her forehead with a palm when she saw the unread messages on her scroll. “Weiss was treating us to personal massages, and they didn’t allow any electronics in the spa!” Ruby explained happily, apparently also having never taken subtext classes at School.

Yang was far less happy to hear the news.

“Uh, Yang?” Weiss asked, deciding this wouldn’t be the best time to bring up the tutoring thing. “Are you ok?” she asked.

Yang was slow to reply, as she dropped the muddy clump of hair, standing up straight.

“We can get you a spa day, too!” Weiss offered, chuckling nervously, as she noticed the increasingly panicked messages that had been left on her scroll, as well.

Yang, again, remained silent, looking around herself like a golem.

“My hair,” Yang said, at last. Sounding extremely calm about the prospect, in much the same way that a mountain side is, when trying to collect enough loose snow to form an avalanche.

“Yes, we can make it better, Yang,” Ruby said.

“Who’s ship is that for?” Yang asked at last, looking to the bullhead, content with the knowledge that she wouldn’t face any trouble -- or, indeed, any legal repercussion -- beating the person responsible for this. After all, no one except a hunter would know how to fly a bullhead that badly; and Yang considered herself undefeated in the ring… unless you counted Pyrrha, that was.

“It’s for Pyrrha,” Weiss answered her.

So, then, Yang turned to the next available punching bag.

“Ruby,” Yang called with decided calm.

“Yes?” Ruby asked, now hiding herself behind Blake.

“What did I always tell you about checking your scroll for messages?”

“To always check them before bed?” Ruby answered.

“Yes,” Yang answered, “I did, didn’t I?”

Ruby grew increasingly uncomfortable in the growing silence.

“Yang, I just wanted to say, I really consider us to be good sisters!” Ruby yelled, peeking over Blake’s shoulder.

“We’re half-sisters, Ruby,” Yang answered decidedly.

“No!” Ruby implored, for far more practical reasons, now. “We’re more than that! Really! I was just telling Weiss and Blake how much you mean to me!”

“Ruby,” Yang cut her sister off with the word, drawing out the reply, “come out from behind Blake.”

“Why? What are you going to do, Yang?” Ruby asked.

“Just come out,” Yang said quietly.

“I’m not coming out until you tell me what you’re going to do!”

Yang, in a friendly mood, decided to indulge her. “Do you remember that time Weiss told us about how Winter handles situations like this?

* * *


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37: The Fall Maiden Arrives**

* * *

The food, while edible, did serve to remind Mr. S of his predicament. That the reception wouldn’t last forever.

He’d have to set up another wedding before next week, definitely.

Maybe the Fall Maiden… he considered.

Still, despite his assurance that the reception wouldn’t last forever, it sure seemed set on reaching the halfway mark, because the servants still hadn’t managed to set everything ready for the Fall Maiden’s exit.

They stood around the great bullhead, poking and prodding at the vacuum pumps and locking mechanisms with long sticks and delicate machinery.

Mr. S was content to wait, sampling the various dishes and spreads that hadn’t been rendered inedible by the Bullhead’s rougher than usual landing.

Eventually, however, Mr. S had eaten his fill, and they still hadn’t managed to extract the door.

And, waiting as he was, with nothing to do, Mr. S began to worry.

If what Schwarz had told him was true, then it’s likely that the fall maiden herself was flying the vehicle, somewhat explaining the inexpertly handled landing. And, though all hunters were required to attain a minimum bar of flying skill, Mr. S was content to forgive the mess she’d made of things upon landing. But, he still couldn’t help but worry, that her recent landing might have been a sign of her carelessness.

Because, what if she was a diva?

I mean, back on earth, people started getting detached and calling themselves emperor of the universe whenever they controlled more than a million square miles of land, or got more than two platinum albums.

And, Mr. S really didn’t want to consider what would happen when you gave a teenage girl literal magic powers.

Of course, from what he’d seen, Winter was straight laced enough.

But, would this Pyrrha girl be different?

“What’s taking them so long,” Mr. S asked looked around himself worriedly, now, trying to waylay any of more notorious expectations, as the constant wait, and continually closed ramp set his worries flying.

“I think they’re just trying to clean up the landing area before they open up the door, sir,” Schwarz answered.

“Why?” Mr. S asked, “did she ask for there to be no mud? Is she going to throw a tantrum if she sees anything that isn’t chrome colored?”

“Uh, no sir,” Schwarz answered, wide eyed at the proposition. “From what I’ve seen, her record of behavior is spotless. And all of her letters of recommendation paint her as a consummate huntress. Not to mention, Ozpin has vowed, personally, to vouch for her behavior.”

“Hm,” Mr. S answered, not too eased by Schwarz’s assuage. That all sounded too good to be true, if you asked him. Nobody was that nice.

And, it was at that moment, with a death-star hiss, that the Bullhead depressurized, and the ramp began extending.

Pyrrha soon came out at the head of her group, in all her glory, and Mr. S immediately discarded all of his worries when he saw her, replacing them instead with fatalistic awareness of how many drugs this girl had to be taking.

Because holy… shit.

“Pyrrha” as he’d recognized the girl, was dressed in a very scuffed and burnt armor piece Mr. S wouldn’t have been shocked to see in a game manual, with how low cut it was. The armor, despite its sparsity, seemed to weigh heavily on the girl, with how solidly her armored shoes impacted into the red carpet that had been rolled out for her: a carpet which she hardly took notice of, as she walked straight across its curving surface, leading herself and the rest of her team out onto the open grass as they made their way over.

Other than her armor, small hints of black and charcoal made up the hints of her outfit, and very dark bags were apparent under her impatient, and malevolent, eyes as they scanned about her surroundings, only holding still to give whatever fell under her present attention a contemptuous look before moving on to whatever would capture her fancy next.

At last, she arrived close enough that she managed, for a moment, to focus her attention onto Mr. S.

And she smiled a tight, impenetrable smile, that seemed constructed to display her unhappiness.

“Greetings,” she said, with a polite gesture that hinted at a bow.

“Welcome,” Mr. S answered, holding out his hand, and hoping very dearly she wouldn’t rip it off.

Pyrrha took his hand in her surprisingly gentle grip, and started shaking.

“Well,” Mr. S began, recalling his short speech for the occasion. “It’s an honor, truly, to have the Fall Maid-”

“My name is Pyrrha,” the girl cut shortly, “I hope you’ll be able to remember it.” Mr. S felt her grip tightening, and he quickly pulled away from the shake.

“Of course,” he answered, with his own, now manufactured, smile. “Well, Pyrrha, we’re glad to have you, anyways. I’m sure someone can show you to your rooms,” he said, gesturing to the trio that stood, lined up, behind the girl.

“Hey Pyrrha, hey team Juniper” Ruby waved at the girl, smiling politely, “how are you guys doing?”

Pyrrha didn’t answer, but Jaune was already there to fill the silence with a practice that belied experience. “Oh, us?” he asked with a raising voice. “We’re doing fine,” he gestured easily to the rest of the team.

“Yeah! We took the all-school, after-tournament championship, after all!” Nora yelled, pumping a fist into the air. “Me and Ren even got the power-couple award!”

“Actually,” Ruby corrected with refined taste, “it’s ‘I and Ren’, Nora.”

“Ren and I, Ruby,” Weiss corrected with bored appease.

“Actually, that’s really only a matter of etiquette,” Nora replied.

“Etiquette matters!” Weiss said.

“Anyway,” Yang said, interrupting her futile effort to comb the mud out of her hair, “what’s been up with you guys?”

Jaune perked at the prompt. “Well, like Nora said, we had a lot of success in the tournament-”

“No thanks to you,” Phyrra muttered, just loud enough to be heard, directing her eyes in a sideways glance over to where Jaune stood, deflating, behind her.

A sullen silence fell over everyone, one which Nora worked to quickly patch over. “Well! Yeah!” she said, smiling, “Jaune’s still got the mad strategies, though! I mean, he definitely held us back from-”

“That seems to be all he’s good for.” Phyrra said the words quietly, as if talking exclusively to herself. Still, it was surprising how easily they, in all their reserve, cut through Nora’s bombastic cheer.

Nora petered off to a standing still, looking aghast.

Mr. S noted with flowering tension, the deep discomfort that ran through the group at Phyrra’s comment, and how it manifested itself individually in each of its members.

Jaune, as Nora had named him, only chuckled lightly, looking very tired as he tried to defuse the tension, and moving to put himself bodily in between the two girls.

Ren, for his part, seemed stiff and quiet. This, Mr. S didn’t find as strange as the sideways glances that affected the boy every so often, as if he were forcing himself to stay and watch the coming extravagance.

Nora, yelled.

“Would you stop!” she snapped, losing her formerly cheerful face in a heartbreaking second, and turning to face Pyrrha with a confrontational tone. “Why are you always saying these things! Jaune never did anything to you!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Pyrrha said with unbroken aloofness. “Besides, why shouldn't I say it? He’s not even a real hunter, after all!”

“I told you to shut up!” Nora was held back from moving any further forward by Jaune’s sudden appearance before her.

“Come on, Nora,” he pleaded. “Now isn’t the time.” Jaune spared an embarrassed glance at the surrounding staff, who were now all staring at the scene as he tried to push gently back against the fiery girl.

“Why don’t you listen to him?” Pyrrha suggested helpfully.

Nora ground her teeth, and stamped her foot. Swinging her arm out, a loud ratchet sang through the air, as her hammerhead sprang out to extend with her side-long arm. “Get out the way, Jaune,” Nora said, scowling deeply.

“Look, I know we had a long trip, but we can take a break now,” Jaune was increasingly frantic, now within arms length of Nora as he pleaded with the girl. “We really won’t have to… see each other-”

“Get out of the way, Jaune,” Nora repeated, and Pyrrha stepped a half step forward. All across the courtyard, a sudden and powerful wind kicked up, gusting intermittently and at random places as if in time with an erratic heartbeat.

“Please!” Jaune whispered, looking earnestly into Nora’s eyes. “Don’t start not listening to me, too!”

Nora sucked in air through her teeth, and looked wildly at Pyrrha.

Jaune, again whispered pleading words, and that seemed to do the trick, as Nora’s hammer shrank back upon itself, and she took a calming breath to go with it.

“Someday, I’m going to hit her,” Nora whispered with shivering anger.

“This isn’t a fight you could ever win,” Pyrrha answered seriously.

“Fine,” Nora retorted, returning to a more wicked turn of her previous smile. “I wouldn’t trust you not to kill me, anyway, considering I’m not Cinder.”

The wind, which had been streaming lightly, with occasional, sudden gusts, blasted into overdrive, as obscuring lines, like hurricane winds, painted themselves with mud and water, covering the landscape as if they were drawn onto it. The air seemed to whip about like a living beast, and its gales seemed like solid walls whenever they hit. Slowly, in the background, a large table began to hover gently, tilting unsteadily in the howling air, and banging intermittently against the ground, which kept it, for now, from flipping.

Pyrrha, electric with energy, walked as easily as if the wind weren’t there, approaching Nora who, once again, extended her hammer and crouched low to brace against the blustering gales. Ren trawled slowly against the wind, coming to Nora's side.

And then it all stopped.

In a soft moment, hardly noticed for its absence, the air came to a crashing halt all around them. And the small bullets of mud hovered, and then fell, driven into the ground by some unseen force; and the table crashed with a thud of wood and clatter of porcelain onto the increasingly muddy garden grounds.

Mr. S, looking around himself at the supernatural stillness that overtook the atmosphere, found difficulty breathing, as if every breath had to be stolen from the tightfisted grip of a greedy goddess, and then forced back out into a car tire.

Pyrrha looked around herself with equal confusion, noticing the sudden lack of energy sparking about her body.

Quietly, Winter made her presence known with her soft foot steps, standing straight backed with an arm folded behind her lower back. She stopped, standing side to side with Schwarz.

She turned a cool glance onto team Juniper, and particularly at Pyrrha. “Is something the matter?”

“Nothing,” Pyrrha ground out. “I was just leaving.”

“Where are you going?” Jaune asked, speaking in a way that showed he didn’t expect an answer.

So, it was no great surprise when he didn’t get one. And Pyrrha stomped madly off into the distance, fists clenched angrily as her sword clanged heavily against her side-skirt.

Mr. S, seeing his plans for the girl go up in metaphorical flames, turned now to Ren and said:

“So, I hear Nora and you won power-couple…”

* * *


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38**

* * *

Mr. S very much wanted to give the Fall Maiden a chance.

After the scene at her arrival, he’d entered the castle with a real commitment to ameliorating circumstances with the girl.

Then, lightning struck one of the castle turrets, magically going through the Faraday cage and destroying the not inconsiderably expensive piece of defensive equipment.

This immediately preceded the destruction of the fountain due to high water pressure.

And then there was the fire.

Still, he was committed to preserving the peace between them.

He even said as much, when he -- having been called back to the garden to speak with the girl -- spared a glance at the destroyed turret, and then another glance at his watch, which showed that five minutes had passed since her arrival.

He walked back out into the garden, where most of the staff still milled around, nominally there to tidy up, and actually trying to sneak discreet glances at the new girl. The rest of team Juniper huddled in the central plain of grass, conversing cheerfully with team RWBY; Yang was the notable exception who, now that she’d managed to wash her face and hands in a nearby fountain, was hurriedly stuffing food into her rapidly billowing cheeks while balancing precariously on the Bullhead ramp.

In an effort to make up for recent events, Schwarz had allowed Yang to live on the bullhead for now, which stayed parked in the far corner of the garden, where many of the buffet tables had been moved to accommodate the girl.

Mr. S passed by the group with little incident, taking comfort in the sudden proximity Schwarz had taken to keeping with him ever since the attack. Still, he couldn’t help but miss the presence of Winter, who had left off before he’d arrived. Worried signs crawled in shivers up his spine, as the shadow deepened, and he entered further into forested recesses of the garden grounds; finally, he found Pyrrha in a quiet clearing, where she sat, leaning against a marble statue next to a dark circle of charred grass.

Surprisingly, as he looked at the scene, Mr. S found himself ready to believe that Pyrrha hadn’t started the fire with her maiden powers; because she was smoking, and another, burnt, corpse of a cigarette lay crumpled in the center of the char circle.

“Pyrrha!” Mr. S greeted with natural enthusiasm, remembering at the last moment to call her by her name. It came as a shock, how refined an instinct for acting he’d picked up, now that he was in this body. Despite the circumstances, he could actually feel himself affecting genuine joy.

Pyrrha took another drag, and breathed out a heavy lungful of smoke, as she faced off to the side, one foot braced against the top corner of the statue’s base.

“I heard there was a fire,” he said, not mentioning at all the slagging turret that was currently teetering atop the near wall.

Pyrrha, again, didn’t answer.

“Is… something the matter?” Mr. S asked.

“No,” Pyrrha's eyes focused on a distant point in the grass.

Mr. S, under the force of the same instinct which guided his acting, drew closer. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Well, a lot of things have been bothering me about nothing, lately,” Pyrrha answered, looking darkly over at him. “Like that turret,” she gestured up at the slag.

Abort! Abort!

Mr. S about faced, practically moon walking -- so quickly had he turned away from the girl.

Still, he kept a dignified tone of voice. “Well, we’ll try to accommodate you as best as we are able,” he answered, bowing as he made his way to leave. “If you need anything, the staff is at your service.”

…

Still remarkably conciliatory, Mr. S didn’t feel any ill will towards the girl, after the fact.

Granted, he didn’t like her, at all, but he wasn’t one to let such personal grudges get in the way of his official duties.

And so he ventured to forgive the girl her insults, and worked to rationalize her actions to himself. After all -- he thought -- she was in a new land, surrounded by strange people. It was natural for her to be unpalatable, considering the circumstances. Besides, she hadn’t killed anyone yet! Not to mention, she hadn’t destroyed anything for the past ten minutes.

A new record!

Well, it was a new record if you discounted the statue.

Mr. S disregarded the calls for him to speak with her again. He knew that, sometimes, people just needed to be left alone; and trying to force his understanding ways onto her was unlikely to end well for anyone, he decided: least of all him.

So, he stuck firmly to his earlier conviction, and resolved to let the girl be for the duration of her stay at the Manor.

At least, he had been willing to do that until he saw the video.

Yes, that video. The one with over one-hundred-million views on Video Share.

On one of his impromptu breaks -- in one of the various waiting rooms scattered throughout the manor -- Mr. S sat back in a short couch and -- drawn, at first, to the video purely by curiosity -- tapped his scroll to start the footage. The introductions were interesting, much like a play, in a way, and accompanied by much fanfare. And, the start of the fight -- what little Mr. S could see of it -- was actually quite gripping.

And then the highlight of the video came, and Mr. S started physically leaning back from his scroll, trying to distance himself from the screen as Pyrrha -- looking far less goth in those days -- throttled the cheerful redhead with her own wires.

And Mr. S found it difficult to look away, despite the slowly increasing distance that formed between him and his scroll.

The girl, Penny, wasn’t even choking.

She was a robot, of course, Mr. S understood, but she’d seemed so human, so intelligent in the earlier fight and preamble, that it was quite a shock to see her body hanging dead like a lifeless puppet as Pyrrha dragged her around, cut her open, took her apart, and ripped her insides onto the arena.

The affair, in its whole, lasted just about three seconds Mr. S guessed, though it felt somehow longer than that -- as if he’d spent half his life experiencing it. His hands felt clumsy as he tried to regain control of the unwieldy scroll.

Finally, the shock ended, and the crowd's roars silenced, and Pyrrha stumbled back from the scene, looking around herself in genuine confusion.

Gathering herself, and looking at her surroundings, she ran at last, stumbling, over to Penny's remnants.

Once there, she fell onto her hands and knees, hovering a shaky hand over the blackened torso.

Senselessly, Penny’s upper body, over which Pyrrha had chosen to dedicate the greater portion of her attention, moved. Slowly, jagged remnant of her upper arm, a skeleton of black metal tipped generously with a gold ingot, pivoted, rising up from around the shoulder joint and gently touching the spot just below Pyrrha’s neck with the jagged, golden stump of its right arm.

And then it died, and the arm fell, bouncing lifelessly on the ground, and the subtle glow in Penny's eyes became noticeable, for the first time, for how it departed.

Pyrrha jumped back suddenly, rising onto her feet and looking up at the watching crowd. She stepped back, nearly tripping over some rubble, and then turned, summoning her weapon to hand from where she’d dropped it before she started running.

And then the footage cut off.

Generously, that had been regret she was expressing. Less generously, Mr. S decided, it was Schizophrenia.

Schwarz walked into the waiting room at this moment, slowing to a confused stop, with her lunch in hand, as Mr. S turned his thousand yard stare onto her.

* * *

It was in the most natural voice that Mr. S had started the conversation. And, all throughout the long winded introduction, Ozpin sat, patiently staring at the screen, as -- with agonizing patience -- Mr. S’s words tumbled over themselves to come, at last, to the final conclusion:

“In light of this, I’m afraid I’m rescinding my earlier offer,” Mr. S said, trying to fake sadness at the decree. “The Fall maiden will no longer be allowed to stay here.”

Ozpin, to Mr. S’s chagrin, did not seem to be taking the ultimatum as seriously as Mr. S had meant it.

Ozpin sighed with some modicum of worry. “Very well,” he said. “We’ll arrange a transport for her by next week. I trust you’ll be able to keep her on the premises until then?”

Mr. S became immediately suspicious of the man, because his response wasn’t genuine. Oh, he didn’t seem to be lying, outright, but Ozpin had the character of someone who just knew that things were going to go his way. He had the face of a person who was mentally counting down from three…

Two,

One,

BANG! A deafening shout of metal was followed by a comparatively quiet exhortation.

“What are you saying!? We can’t kick Pyrrha out!” Weiss said, from where she’d slammed open the half-ton, armored door like it was a windscreen. In her off hand, a scroll glowed with messages.

“Ah, I see you’re busy at the moment. How about we finish our conversation at another time!” Ozpin smiled, cutting off the video feed before Mr. S could stop him.

“Well!?” Weiss was in his face now, demanding answers.

“Well?” Mr. S mimicked her, “she’s unstable!”

“No she’s not!”

“Really? You’re willing to stand by that conviction, are you?”

“...We still shouldn’t kick her out!”

“Well, I am, so save yourself the heartache,” Mr. S said, walking past her while Schwarz moved to follow.

“You can’t!” Weiss yelled, pitching with such energy that Mr. S paused in his stride, and turned back to look at her with a raised eyebrow.

Weiss was suddenly abashed. “I mean… you let Yang stay,” she said, drawing softly.

“Yang was a security risk that could be worked around, Weiss. More importantly, she was cooperative.”

“And Pyrrha will be, too! She’s not like she seems!” Weiss sprang over to stand in front of him again, looking at him with pleading.

Mr. S turned away from the burning hope in her eyes, noting that this was the first un-tormented look he’d seen on the girl, and surprising himself with how much he feared to destroy it.

Mr. S set pacing, keeping his eyes carefully away from Weiss as he deliberated.

Finally, he asked: “Are you threatening to leave if I don’t allow her to stay?”

“No,” Weiss answered, “but I am promising to reconsider.”

“What?”

“You said you cared about me, and that that was why you let us stay. If you really mean that-”

“I'll allow every crazy person who wanders in here to stay in the castle?” Mr. S finished, bored incredulity supporting his words. “What, next, challenge is there to prove my intentions? Shall I leap off a cliff?”

“She’s not a crazy!” Weiss sparked genuine anger behind him. And Mr. S turned to look at her with a rather skeptical look. “She’s really not!" Weiss insisted. "Gods, I wish you’d known her -- how she was -- before the attack,” genuine regret and pain rose up in Weiss’s voice. “I… I’m indebted to her, father,” she admitted finally, open weariness in her voice. “We all are. And, I promise you, she will behave. I’ll make sure of it! She won’t do anything bad anymore! Just let her stay!” Weiss’s words crowded into themselves, each one seemed to fall from her mouth faster than the last.

As to Mr. S and Weiss, so caught up were they in her tirade, that they were both surprised, at the end of it, to find themselves holding hands.

From their positioning, it was apparent that Weiss had been the one to initiate the contact, as well as the one who had taken his hands, pleadingly, into hers.

After a second of appraisal, they both jumped back a half step, nearly shivering and looking as if they needed a shower.

“Uh,” they both said in unison, looking away pointedly from each other.

Schwarz, in the background, looked away from the scene with an indeterminate expression that ran the gamut between jealousy and embarrassment.

“Let’s never speak of that again,” Weiss proposed.

“Agreed,” Mr. S answered.

“So, can Pyrrha stay, then?”

“Ok,” Mr. S nodded.

And they both turned to leave just when Farbe, still dressed as a maid, came hurriedly into the room.

“Mr. Schnee!” she bowed, speaking with bitter excitement, “Pyrrha is gone! She escaped from over the south wall, and the last records show her heading into town!”

* * *

Schwarz had been dispatched to retrieve Pyrrha.

With her, she took Pinkamena, Haetzen and Beryl, uncomfortable with the prospect of leaving the castle after the recent attacks, and unwilling to leave it without at least some guards present.

And some time had passed, after her dispatch, when Pyrrha’s mother arrived.

The bad thing about this, was that Mr. S was left Schwarz-less when it came time to greet the towering amazon.

And he had very little answers prepared when she scowled down at him from atop the ramp of her bullhead, yelling:

“What do you mean you’ve lost her!?”

Mr. S, still under the effect of his new body's ingrained habits, didn't stumble over his words. Granted, he also didn't have any words to say; so, in the end, he came off with a cool silence as he looked quietly up at the fiery woman.

“She’s taken a trip to the city,” Winter answered calmly, moving to stand in front of Mr. S. “We’ve sent our most trusted personnel to recover her.”

Thetis only snarled dismissively, walking past the both of them without so much as a glance. “... can never trust a Schnee to do anything right,” she muttered under her breath, a line of servants carrying her bags in line behind her. “I’ll be needing a room, by the way,” she said, hardly looking back as she entered the stairway that led into the roof. “The same one I reserved last time should do.”

Winter looked at Mr. S with questioning. He only shrugged weakly in assent.

“Very well,” Winter answered, “I’ll show you the way.”

* * *

Schwarz was streaming down mainstreet, leaping along the buildings and passing, every so often, another patrol of officers, most of whom were new arrivals to the beleaguered city.

Schwarz took mild interest in the fact that most of the investigation teams were gathered along the path Schwarz and her security team had taken during their fight with Raven; and a particularly large group, Schwarz could see, was gathered around the former Primary Dust Palace, an investigative air about them. She didn’t devote too much attention to it, however, as most of her thoughts were centered around the missing Maiden.

Pyrrha’s scroll tracker wasn’t transmitting, and Schwarz had been forced to rely on far more traditional methods: magic super powers.

Pinkamena flickered to Schwarz's position every other building or so, keeping pace easily as she arrived, briefly, to deliver her news before departing once again.

Schwarz had just landed on the next building when Pinkamena arrived, suddenly, next to her. “Just checked the north side of town, nothing there!” she said cheerfully, before once again replacing herself with space.

And Schwarz was left in silence as she fell in a shallow arc over to the next building, landing just in time to receive Pinkamena's next update.

“Just checked the north north-east side! Nothing to report!!”

And Schwarz leapt over another building, keeping her trajectory low and fast.

“Just checked the northeast side!”

And another building.

“East side- You know,” Pinkamena interrupted herself, putting a quizzical finger to her chin. “ why don’t I just do that thing where I teleport to every place at once!? You know I can-”

“No, Pinkamena, you can’t,” Schwarz interrupted sternly, “we’re still facing lawsuits from the last time.”

“Those kids only fainted because I was wearing bright colors!” Pinkamena insisted, scowling with annoyance.

Schwarz looked incredulously at her, running a gaze up and down at the woman’s attire.

Pinkamena looked down at herself, noticing the sparkling, neon-pink outfit that covered her blue blazer. "Oh," her eyes seemed to say, as she looked bashfully back at Schwarz. “Just one moment!” she raised a finger into the air, seeming to become transparent for an instant as she flickered in place, now wearing a drabber copy of her outfit: with neon-pinks replaced by woody red’s, and baby-blues substituted with star-light navy. “This should be better!” Pinkamena declared, looking hopefully back up at Schwarz. “So…?” she pondered, “can I!? Can I!? Come on! It’ll only just take a moment!” she said, pouting at Schwarz’s unyielding expression.

“No,” Schwarz said, not pausing her careful scan of the passing surroundings.

“But, what if there’s an emergency!” Pinkamena waved her arms wildly above her. “Just think of the-”

“Just go check the south, south-east-” Schwarz ordered.

“Wait!” A voice came to Schwarz.

“What is it?” Schwarz asked, looking to her left and lowering her voice to match the soft-spoken girl’s.

“I’m sensing something in the ninth district,” Hatzen answered, adding: “I feel… great panic, and fear, and anger… next to the bad on twelfth, just beside the sea-food restaurant.” Hatezen sermoned with fingers caged in front of her chest; eyes closed yet lacking none of the awareness required to keep up with Schwarz’s intense pace.

Schwarz hardly took a moment to notify Pinkamena before the girl was suddenly to Schwarz’s left, a hand on her and Haetzen’s shoulders; and they all landed softly on the stout roof of the robotics store, in the ninth district, looking down upon the darkening street below them.

The evening was just setting in, and the prawn store’s neon sign looked down at the scene with grave attention.

It gave the incident a decidedly reddish light, and preferentially lit Pyrrha’s locks of auburn hair, which seemed to glow in the sparse darkness.

The other girl’s face was masked by similarly glowing streaks -- made of blood that dripped down her pointed chin. The line of black hair atop her head was dyed red and hanging heavily around her face, sticking to her bloody cheeks. She was hunched and stumbling, nearly falling to the side and catching herself with a solid stamp of her armored boot.

Pyrrha, on the other hand, was far more composed, and stood with unyielding gravity before the girl, her hands glowing in that similar shade as she walked forward with capital ease.

The bloodied girl, with a painful trickle of red running down the lower blade of her jaw, tried another feint. This one, unlike her previous attempts, seemed securely aimed at escape.

Her armor seemed only capable of working against her, however, as Pyrrha caught her easily by the shoulder plate, arresting her motion and backhanding her into the ground.

Pyrrha's opponent crashed down with a hard thud, he blood stained hair fell in heavy curtains to drag along the ground like a paintbrush. She seemed beset by stillness, and hounded by invisible pains that tugged back at her every motion.

“Get up!” Pyrrha ordered, pacing around the fallen girl and watching with growing anger as she slowly crawled back onto her elbows.

The girl, blood dripping in patters onto the street, coughed, and looked ready to collapse.

“I said get up!” Pyrrha yelled, and the girl’s armor rose, lifting her collar into Pyrrha’s unyielding grip, as Pyrrha’s other, reddened hand formed into a hard fist and swiftly rose-.

“Stop!” A sudden, hard jerk stopped her arm, and Pyrrha looked down to see a much younger, dark haired girl holding her arm, hugging herself around it as she looked up at her with teary eyes. “Please! Don’t hurt her anymore! She didn’t mean what she said!” the girl cried, unwilling to shift herself from the tight grip she’d formed around Pyrrha’s arm.

Pyrrha looked around herself, noticing for the first time the worried and fearful whispers coming from the throng gathered around her. The girl’s three teammates stood foremost among the crowd, looking on with their own intense and unreadable looks.

And Pyrrha surprised herself with the sudden storm of anger those looks inspired in her.

Throwing her left arm out, Pyrrha sent the older girl skidding across the ground. Immediately, the younger girl ran over to her, kneeling at her side.

“Coward!” Pyrrha spat, turning away.

Immediately, the crowd parted, revealing the empty street as she walked down the cobblestone. She walked for a long while, lost in the lights, and turned into the first dark alley she found herself drawn to.

There, she found Schwarz, who stood with crossed arms and a cross expression.

And Hatzen was beside her, a balm of calming glowing between her hands.

* * *

Pyrrha arrived at the Manor with little fanfare but a great crowd.

Servants and guests alike all discretely found themselves at the arrival point, and teams Juniper, Weiss, Blake and Ruby stood at the fore of them, looking with wide eyes and amazed expressions as Pyrrha was led in.

Pyrrha was decidedly calm, walking naturally, and using her hands as if she didn’t notice the blood covering them up beyond her wrist.

So careless of this fact was she, that a dozen streaks of blood marred her face wherever she’d straightened her hair or made a nervous gesture. And a dozen more, covered the walls and objects behind her, marking a spot whenever Schwarz had failed to remind her not to touch anything.

Whenever Schwarz did manage to remind her in time, Pyrrha was compliant and resolved to follow the orders with little complaint. But, just seconds later, it was as if she would forget, and lose her sense of everything as she brought a hand to wipe an increasingly blood-soaked strand of hair out of her face.

The crowd looked on with fascinated excitement, murmuring whenever she made a thoughtless motion. A few of them moved to take out their scrolls, and the trifecta teams of RWBY and Juniper moved to get closer.

Schwarz was having none of it, and gave a short nod to Pinkamena.

Pinkamena smiled with giddy energy, and suddenly seemed to be next to everyone at once.

In the following instant, the crowd was gone, scattered throughout the various levels of the Schnee Manor -- anywhere but there, as Schwarz had ordered.

Pyrrha was escorted to her holding room. There, she immediately felt drawn to the clean sheets of her new bed -- which seemed to glow with a soft light that beckoned to her tired form.

Pyrrha made towards it when hand stopped her. She turned back to Schwarz, who pulled her over to the bathroom. There she pushed Pyrrha to the sink, ordering her to wash her hands.

Pyrrha complied immediately, seeming lost within herself.

Schwarz hardly hid her annoyance with the girl as she ordered her about, occasionally directing her attention to any blood splatters she’d missed, and which still hung about her face.

Eventually, when she felt confident enough that Pyrrha had gotten into the rhythm, Schwarz ran over to the shower, testing the warm water with her hand.

When she’d grown satisfied that the water was ready, and that Pyrrha, who seemed more responsive now, was coming to, she helped the girl strip out of her armor and step into the shower.

With that done, Schwarz left the bathroom and oversaw the transfer of the girl’s luggage into the bedroom.

And with that, too, done, Schwarz lent Pyrrha’s harness against a nearby wall and left, closing the door behind her.

Pyrrha, while never having paid much attention to Schwarz's presence, did take note of her exit.

Warm drips of water fall onto the linoleum tile as Pyrrha made her own exit of the shower; drying herself with a towel and padding with moist feet onto the carpeted section; once there, Pyrrha dressed into her night clothes an somehow got herself under the airy, cool blankets of her bed.

There, she at once lay out, closed her eyes, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

The next morning, Pyrrha was led to an unused meeting room, furnished with underused, domestic furniture and bright, fluorescent lighting.

Placed on one side of a long, glass table, Pyrrha looked mildly at Schwarz, who sat opposite her, taking occasional notes in a large, blue folder, filled with many papers.

The next several hours consisted of a detailed interview of the events of the preceding evening.

Pyrrha didn’t mind the interrogation, and amicably, if dryly, responded to the questions put to her. After the fourth hour, however, she couldn’t help but feel they were beginning to repeat themselves.

“Why did you leave?” Schwarz asked, in that same, ever patient tone she held over the course of her investigation.

“What do you mean, why?” Pyrrha for the first time allowed annoyance to creep into her voice. “Am I prisoner here?”

“No,” Schwarz denied.

“Then what’s so confusing? I like to go to town, sometimes,” she shrugged. “I don’t see why there needs to be an inquiry into every breath I took while I was there.”

“You’re free to leave any time you like,” Schwarz sighed. “However,you were not granted residence to the Schnee manor for no reason; you should know not to leave it without announcement. And you should especially know,” Schwarz lent over the table to drive home the words, “not to shut off your scroll while doing so.”

“I wanted some privacy,” Pyrrha said, glaring up at the woman.

“Were you looking for a fight?” Schwarz asked, outright, tilting her head in question.

“She started it.”

“That’s not how the police report reads,” Schwarz slid the folder across the desk, turning it so that Pyrrha could read, and hoping to shock her with the revelation.

Pyrrha was less than impressed. “And…?” she asked, boredom coloring her voice. “Am I being sent to jail, now? For what? Because I fought a student? I walked past ten fights on my way into the city!”

“None of them led to hospitalizations!” Schwarz slammed a hand down, rattling the table. Standing, she paced back, letting out a calming breath. “Luckily for you, we’ve managed to convince her not to press charges.”

“Woo hoo,” Pyrrha intoned flatly.

“It’s no joke,” Schwarz’s voice fell heavy with laden seriousness. “And make no mistake, Pyrrha, you will be on a very short leash from now on.”

Pyrrha hardly reacted to the announcement, only asking quietly: “what are the terms?”

“For one, we will no longer be tolerating any further escapades into the city. You will be liable to report either to Winter or me before you enter and exit this castle.”

“So I am a prisoner,” Pyrrha said.

“You’re under supervision,” Schwarz responded.

Pyrrha only drew a quiet breath, huffing it through her nostrils as and hunched down further in her seat, crossing her arms as if chaining herself into the static pose.

Schwarz let out her own sigh.

“We’re not against you, Pyrrha,” she said at last, eyebrows turning down into sympathetic curves, “none of us are. And, I’m not blind to the sacrifices you’ve had to make, but-”

“May I leave now?” Pyrrha asked shortly, somehow speaking too-loudly and scowling at her reflection in the glass tabletop. “I’ve told you everything there was to tell. I don’t think we have much more to say to each other.”

Schwarz exhaled tiredly, removing her hands. “There is one final order of business,” she said. “It’s about your mother.”

“My mother!?” Pyrrha said all too quickly, leaning back from the glass to look at Schwarz with an altogether new expression. Far from her previous apathy, Pyrrha seemed energized, now, by surprise, and even what seemed to Schwarz to be hope. “She’s here?” Pyrrha asked, desperate for clarification, “already?”

“Yes, she arrived just after you left,” Schwarz said.

Pyrrha jumped up from her seat, almost matching Schwarz’s eye level. “Where is she?”

“Just one moment,” Schwarz gestured for Pyrrha to sit back down. “I’ll take you to her shortly,” Schwarz promised, trying to placate the increasingly harried girl, “but I need to ask you some questions first.”

“Please, yes, of course,” Pyrrha looked back behind her as she adjusted her chair, clutching her hands over the glass as she sat, straight backed, off the edge of her seat. Her face also underwent an indeterminate change -- still expressionless, but more readily serious about the situation, in muddled contrast to her previous apathy.

Schwarz, seeing the girl’s evident willingness to cooperate, went straight to the main question.

“We questioned your mother, and she claims to have come here at your request -- is this true?”

“Yes. I asked for her to come here.” Pyrrha nodded in the affirmative.

“Why?” Schwarz asked.

“Why do you need to know?” Pyrrha answered, immediately suspicious.

Schwarz stood back up from the table, pacing along its length in silence as she searched for the right words. “As you may already know,” Schwarz said at last, “this is not the first time your mother has been a guest to this manor.”

“What’s the issue, then?” Pyrrha asked, immediately sensing the worry in her tone.

Schwarz, again, vaccilated in the silence, nodding her to one side as she explained: “Relations between the Schnee and Nikos have never been the best; and they’ve taken a turn for the worse, in the wake of your mother’s last visit.”

“What happened?” Pyrrha repeated.

“She was expelled from Atlas after we caught her trying to steal state secrets.”

Pyrrha was silent, a troubled look dawning on her. “When did this happen?”

“Six days ago,” Schwarz answered.

“Oh.”

“As you may have already figured, her arrival here has not been met with the greatest ease. And the council has issued an ultimatum.”

“Is she to be expelled again?” Pyrrha asked, looking up at Schwarz with little in her eyes except cold curiosity.

“Not yet;” Schwarz answered, “for the meantime she has been allowed to stay in the high security sections of the castle. She is under surveillance, but I will be able to shut off that surveillance for the duration of your meeting with her. Do you understand why I’m telling you this?”

Pyrrha, taken aback by the offer, could do little more than nod her head in appreciative silence. “I… take it you’re trusting me not to make another scene, if you let me meet with her in private?”

“I’m hedging that you didn’t bring her here to steal state secrets,” Schwarz maintained, hiding a small laugh at the ridiculous notion. “But, yes, I am also trusting you to do that… and, it’s a small gesture, but I hope it’s one that can develop your trust in us, too.”

* * *

It is natural to assume that a life filled only with success would lead one to a losing battle with unhinged megalomania.

For Pyrrha, the situation was quite reversed.

All her life, Pyrrha had taken it for granted -- that she’d never tasted the slightest hint of failure in anything. In battle, she was invincible. In her studies, she excelled. In all society, she’d been a model citizen, beloved by everyone.

Though Pyrrha -- always lacking in vanity -- cared little for her exploits. Even at the highest moments of her former glory, she’d always perceived herself -- first and foremost -- as a good person: one who cared more about righteous action than fame or fortune.

And, over the course of the preceding months, Pyrrha, confronted by so many disasters -- had confirmed that notion to herself, in more ways than one.

Because, despite everyone’s overwhelming consolations to the contrary, Pyrrha had cared little when she’d failed to kill Cinder.

Pyrrha had cared less when her grades started slipping.

And she’d cared none at all when people started avoiding her in public, and when they started asking her to leave their restaurants, and stabbing her with barbs and accusations.

No, Pyrrha didn’t care at all about any of that.

The one thing about herself that she had lost, however, was enough to almost kill her with its absence.

Pyrrha paced in front of the metal door with all the anxiety of a person waiting for a medical report. It was an approptiate emotion, for beyond the door was her mother, and with her lay all of Pyrrah’s hopes of salvation.

Mother could fix Penny, Pyrrha had assured herself all these months. She’d held onto that conviction, comforting herself with it during every sleepless night, and trying to use it as a shield against the… it didn’t matter, she decided, shaking to rid herself of the thoughts. Mother would fix Penny, and Pyrrha would finally get the opportunity to explain…

Yes, that was probably the worst of it.

Pyrrha remembered most of all the questioning, curious look in the dying green eyes. What Pyrrha would give for the chance to explain herself to them!

And Pyrrha, indeed, was willing to give much. This she’d proven by the fact that she was here, outside of her mother’s door.

Of course, there was the issue of her mother’s most recent scandal. Given the events of the past few days, It was unlikely her mother would be allowed anywhere near such sensitive hardware as Penny’s body represented. But, strange as it was to say, Pyrrha hardly thought of that, and in her haste, Pyrrha’s thoughts rarely had the opportunity for self reflection.

As is natural, with people of such a character, Pyrrha was not optimistic, as much as lacking in the basic faculties that could consider, much less calculate, the chances of failure. And the probabilities of success were slim indeed; the thought ran unacknowledged through the back of the girl’s head, as she paced worriedly in front of the doors.

Still, worries were nothing new to Pyrrha. She’d faced a thousand dangers worse and come out unscathed.

And this sentiment of her infallibility utterly convinced Pyrrha that everything would turn out ok. This wasn’t a delusion of grandeur, nor even a sign of arrogance on Pyrrha’s part. Rather, it was, to her, a simple fact, that the word she’d lived in was one mutable by her efforts -- and, truly, it could hardly have made sense for her to fail now, when the stakes for her soul and character were as high as she could ever have imagined.

Still, despite this confidence and drive, it was not without some distaste that she finally entered into her mother’s room.

“Mother!” Pyrrha said impassionately. She walked further into the room, letting the door slowly clack shut behind her.

“Pyrrha,” Thetis replied with relative demurity, facing away from her daughter and looking directly into the mirror, eyes glancing aside as she fixed her makeup.

And, even in the mirror, Pyrrha noticed, Thetis hardly bothered to spare a glance at her daughter’s reflection.

This thought drew Pyrrha’s thoughts to her own appearance. It shocked her; when she finally took the changes that had taken place. Her armor no longer gleamed, instead replaced with muddy, charred and broken metal where her harness once stood. And her face somehow seemed younger, and more confused, despite the weary expression that dragged down on its features.

Pyrrha looked away with a shake of her head, and returned her attention to her mother, who was still not looking at her.

“Mother, I… I need your help,” Pyrrha talked stumblingly and unwittingly over every sentence, looking very uncertain as she walked around the various chairs -- unsure whether it would be more appropriate to sit or stand.

“Oh, is that why you’ve arranged this meeting between us, Pyrrha?” Thetis ignored the curler in her hand, and let it drop noiselessly onto the cabinet top, “because you need something from me?”

“No!” Pyrrha denied, “I just want to make things right-”

“Oh, and now come the tears,” Thetis said with bored exasperation, swivelling her chair about to look at the girl who seemed to be on the verge of hysterics. “I just don’t see why you’ve even bothered, Pyrrha. I thought you made yourself very clear when you abandoned me to go to Vale. You were an independent woman from then on, one who wouldn’t need my help… or presence… any longer.”

Pyrrha hardly reacted, except to gain a bit more of that composure and purpose which scaffolded her next words.

“Mother,” she began, drawing closer to the woman and nearly collapsing when she finally gathered the courage to look her in the eyes, “I… you were right. But, I’m not the one who needs your help, now,” Pyrrha begged. “You see, I just need the slightest favor. The smallest, most insignificant favor. It wouldn’t even take you a moment!” Pyrrha seemed lost in the tracks of her words, and paced now, obviously nervous, and speaking in a voice that was somehow too loud. “And I’d never ask you for anything afterwards. I’ll do whatever you want, if it’s within my power! But, I’m asking, from you, the smallest favor, just the smallest gesture of help. You were the one who taught me that the smallest actions matter!” Pyrrha laughed a wooden laugh, suddenly turning to look at Thetis with horrible irony. “And, you have no idea how much you’d save me, how indebted to you I would be, if you could just-!”

“You were indebted to me before,” Thetis remarked with hurt pride. “As I recall, that did not even give you pause, when you-”

“That was different!” Pyrrha stopped herself suddenly, unwilling to say anything that might contradict her mother’s words. “I… I mean, this is different. I can hardly stand myself, mother. I just need you to wake her up! Even if it’s only for a minute, I need you to wake her up, so-”

“Hold on,” Thetis interrupted. “Are we being watched?”

“Oh, no,” Pyrrha answered earnestly. “I’ve been assured, on the most certain-”

An invisible mountain of static suddenly crashed into the space.

“What was that?” Pyrrha asked, looking about herself with wide eyes and raised hackles.

“I’ve shut off the cameras,” Thetis responded easily.

“But, mother, if they-”

“If they’re true to their word, then the cameras would already be off, and they’ll hardly notice the change, will they? Besides, I’d programmed them to run on a loop before you showed up,” Thetis gestured with little consequence.

“Anyway, as you were saying?”

Pyrrha shook off the worries, and carried on. “Penny,” she answered at last, “It’s about Penny. You’re the only one who could fix her, mother. I, the thing is, if you could just wake her up, for me. If you could only do that one thing... oh you have no idea what you’d be doing for me. You would be saving me everything!” Pyrrha fell onto her knees suddenly, taking her mother’s hands in her own.

Thetis looked down at her daughter with a suddenly sad expression, and she raised a hand to run her fingers through Pyrrha’s hair. She noted with some sadness that the color had changed -- more a ruddy brown, now, than the brilliant scarlet that had once been such a source of pride for the girl.

Still, she kept her voice tuned to her old, stern, and maternal overtones when she spoke. “It’s unwise that you should pile all your hopes onto me,” Thetis said. “From what I’ve heard, the girl is in quite a condition.”

“You can save her, mother!’ Pyrrha insisted. “I know you can! I just know you can!” she stopped her repetition, closing her eyes to compose herself as she lowered her head, laying her cheek down on the woman’s thigh. Pyrrha’s hair seemed redder against the blue skirt of Thetis’ dress.

Thetis laughed. “You haven’t done that since you were a little girl!” she brought a curled hand up to her mouth to hide her laugher. “You’re trying to seduce me!” she accused, with sudden playfulness.

“So, will you save her?” Pyrrha asked, lifting her head to look at her.

Thetis tried to hide her sadness at seeing such a needy and immediate look in her daughter’s eyes.

“I’ll try,” she answered.

Pyrrha almost leapt up, a sudden, genuine smile lighting up her face and sending warm sparkles through Thetis’ insides.

“But it’s not that simple!” Thetis cautioned, immediately working to temper the girl’s expectations. “My last departure from here was under… unfavorable circumstances. And Jaques and I have never gotten along, you know that. So, I don’t think, in light of that, he will be very willing to allow me-”

“Oh, he will! He will!” Pyrrha said in ecstasy. “He has to! I mean, look at all that he’s done so far! He’s no stranger to sacrifice. You heard about the orphans, right!”

Thetis rolled her eyes, “yes, we’ve all heard about that story,” she grudgingly admitted.

“And, you can bring Penny back to life,” Pyrrha said, voice shaking with excitement. “He’ll have to see that that’s the right thing to do! I know he-”

And, a sudden shout and a bang interrupted their conversation, as signs of struggle and silence filled the hallway outside.

Pyrrha and Thetis, not trained to inaction, both immediately leapt out onto the hallway, where they saw the bodies of their servants either missing, or in the process of being subdued and teleported away by Pinkamena.

Pyrrha turned to the sudden noise behind them, and there she saw a similar scene, with Schwarz and several of her security team corralling the various Nikos servants as another instance of Pinkamena took them away with flashing insight.

“What is the meaning of this!” Thetis asked shortly, voice roughing down to tones of impending violence.

“Thetis,” Schwarz answered calmly, “you are under house arrest, by the authority of the Schnee Manor. I am to escort you, and your staff, to your new accomodations.”

Thetis scowled, lowering a glare onto Schwarz’s undrawn weapons. She balled her hands into hard fists, eye twitching as she felt Pyrrha reading to do something next to her. And Thetis held her wrists out; "very well," she said at last, returning her face to a more neutral expression. “I know when I’m outmatched.”

“Schwarz!” Pyrrha turned the words onto the girl, expressing with them all her hurt and frustration she could manage.

Schwarz didn’t answer, face expression less and focusing solely on her task of cuffing Thetis’ outheld wrists.

“I trusted you!” Pyrrha accused, “I thought you weren’t-”

“I didn’t lie,” Schwarz said shortly, frustration apparent in her voice. “I allowed you the privacy you asked for, and I’ll continue to allow if -- for as long as I’m able.”

“Then why are you arresting her?” Pyrrha asked, confused. “The council said she could stay!”

“I am under new orders,” Schwarz said, still fiddling with the cuffs she’d locked long ago.

“Whose orders?” Pyrrha demanded.

“Mr. Schnee’s.”

* * *


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter 39**

* * *

The party was extravagant beyond measure.

The entertainment space consisted of several rooms lined up in succession and junctioned by wide, marble doorways who's doors slid back nearly to the wall, and did little to separate the individual suites.

The line of rooms curved, imperceptibly, so that - when standing on the border between rooms - one could hardly see beyond the limit of the next.

Bold color schemes and arabesque figures painted the walls and guided the tapestries - giving each room a distinct character of living light that seemed, in the absence of any substantial doorways, to differentiate the indifferentiable rooms, and to give to them an individual character separate from that of the others.

Mr. Schnee was one of the later arrivals and he wore a white mask, composed of bleached ferns, that covered the upper half of his face, forming a bold fortress around his eyes. This hardly concealed his identity, but it did help him to blend in to the rest of the masked crowd.

At this time of year, the normal social moores were loosened, and many exciting avenues for self expression opened themselves up to the normally more reserved classes of upper Atlas. And, wow, did some people take full advantage, because some of the costumes were what Mr. Schnee would have called... revealing.

"Whooo!" a maid in a lower cut version of her work uniform passed by Mr. S, walking backwards with her arms raised in the air; a giggling posse of similarly dressed mairds followed behind her - one of them was wearing a set of replica Infantry armor made out of cardboard.

Mr. Schnee had entered into the east room, a light blue affair with giant, turquoise windows that lined the walls either side of it.

Beyond the windows, a set of blank hallways followed the curving rooms, filling the space with a subtle glow of filtered blue light.

The next room was similarly modeled, except it was bright white and with translucent windows, it's various decorations hinted at the color of snow.

In each room, the only thing that could be counted upon to break the color scheme were the haphazardly costumed guests, and the gleaming silver robots which traversed the floorspace, carrying refreshments and a thousand other things.

Mr. Schnee climbed up onto a raised dais, which was topped with a small circle of chairs, and enclosed by a round fence of velvet lines. On this occasion, he was alone with Schwarz, keeping up an easy conversation with her, as she sat on the chair next to him. And, truth be told, he'd been deliberate, when setting things up, to allow no other guests. Speaking with Schwarz was one of the few joys left to him, and he dreaded to spoil the occasion by allowing the self important to impose themselves upon him. So engrossed was he, that he hardly noticed the hour flying by, only noticing the time when the time announced itself.

The midnight chime was doubly long, and remarkably loud - so much so, that the orchestra stopped playing, making way for it; and every voice fell to a hush, waiting politely for its speech to end.

Twelve seconds were a long time to spend in attentive silence. And it was long enough that everyone suddenly noticed Thetis, who had all this time managed to avoid attracting anyone's attention.

Thetis was covered in makeup, and hidden beneath the great folds of her latest outfit. Still, no one had any trouble recognizing her; for no one other than Thetis would have dared to wear such a thing.

False blood stained red the white canvas of her tattered robes. Her clothes were pale and bleached otherwise: a costume of poverty, made of the finest silks and dyed with the most expensive inks.

This alone would have drawn little attention, were it not for the torn sections at the back of her costume… reminiscent of the marks that might be left by a whip. Also notable were the faunus ears that decorated her head, and the made-up tattoo that read "SDC" and which seemed to brand itself - in bright letters of burnt flesh - across the side of her paling neck.

Thetis flaunted the look, and paced around the suddenly empty space that formed around her. By the look of her, she might have been on the catwalk. She proudly gestured to highlight the faunus ears she'd stuck on her head, as well as the fake brand which she seemed especially fond off.

"Thetis," Mr. Schnee's words were carried with perfect calm.

Thetis turned, hunching comically over in a servile bow when she saw him. "Is it appropriate, for one such as I, to behold your glory?" Thetis answered, quoting the standard phrase that the leaders of the former Mantle empire had used to greet their king.

Crack, Crack, Crack.

A noise came from the side.

The cold was almost physical with its presence, pressing like cool steel wherever Thetis' tattered robes failed to cover her adequately.

Thetis saw icy ferns crawling slowly into existence on the windows, glowing a ghostly blue against the backlit hallway. Below her, a slight crunch accompanied the shift of her numbing feet. A layer of white condensation that had collected on the floors, and the walls, and the hallways.

And at the epicenter of this temperature change, Mr. Schnee sat stiffly, looking down at her as silent winds howled about him.

The crowd was gone, huddled in the white room; the bravest of them pressed up against the doorway to look upon the developing scene.

Mr. Schnee looked down upon her, his face a mask of the deepest calm, showing nothing except a contentment that seemed to have no end.

Thetis decided, since she was apparently in so much trouble already, to see if she could push that.

Smiling, she tugged at one of her faunus ears, making a gesture with her fingers that - in some parts of the world - was actually considered friendly.

Suddenly the temperature crashed; several of the windows cracked with and various pieces of glassware followed suit. The serving robots stopped working… dead immediately, their glowing eyes turning dark as if a switch had flipped inside them.

Thetis, despite her aura, found herself in a painful cold, and her breath turned solid in the open air, littering the front of her shirt with glittering icicles.

The crowd recoiled in unison from the burning cold, leaving Thetis alone suddenly, in the ice covered blue room.

Mr. Schnee, hardly turning to face Schwarz, spoke calmly: "Escort her out of here."

Schwarz complied, and Thetis was taken to her room.

Very soon afterwards, it was discovered that Thetis had sabotaged some of the cameras around her assigned room.

This was no surprise. After all, it was an open secret that Thetis had a habit of messing with electronics, and hardly anyone begrudged her the use of her semblance. Besides, Thetis herself was older than many of the social delicacies that had formed around international business procedure, and so was given some leeway in this regard.

This particular night, however, her tampering with the cameras was submitted to the T.R.E.G as a violation. And, after some rather hefty string pulling, it had been decided that her actions, as a result of the knowledge she'd gain by interacting with the camera systems, constituted intellectual property theft - a civil crime in most proceedings.

After which, on an expedited ticket, the violation was transferred from the T.R.E.G to Atlas police who - after some virtuoso string performances by Mr. Schnee - concluded that Thetis's intellectual property theft, because it related to the security system of the Schnee Manor, actually represented a case of spying - a capital crime, in most jurisdictions.

And this criminal case, after some string pulling which required the legal equivalent of tugboat, was again expedited to the Atlas Council, where General Ironwood, in review of the evidence, was forced to agree that, yes, Thetis's spying was a threat to national security, and that the best course of action would be to exile her from Atlas immediately.

Granted, it was a temporary exile, but it was still impressive to get even that much done in twenty minutes.

And Thetis was impressed as well, when she was woken up thirty minutes after the fact, and informed of her new status.

She never liked Atlas anyways.

Still, she knew it wouldn't pay to fight the judgement, went without complaint to her private bullhead, and from there to Mistral.

What Thetis apparently did not know, however, was that Mr. Schnee was - at the moment of her exile - lying in his room, dying of the poison that had been administered to him.

* * *

Mr. S paused the scene, watching the footage which had long ago burned itself into his retinas.

He sat in a dark room, staring with strained eyes at the dim projection.

This was the week of the winter solstice and Mr. S had managed, somehow, to convince the staff to host another party week.

Just outside the private meeting room Mr. S had commandeered for his purpose, the din of conversation and opera music could be heard as the servants milled about the colorful party suites.

Mr. S had insisted on another week long celebration - a strange request considering the last celebration was barely a week old.

But Mr. S persevered so that there would be another week of catering. Get food, that was the plan.

Though, perhaps his plan had worked too well, Mr. S thought. He stared sickly at the half eaten apple in his hand, full of food and drowning in boredom.

Despite his boredom, however, Mr. S wasn't relaxed. No, he was anything but.

You see, this entire situation, with the partying and the food and the poison. It reminded him of the fable of the grasshopper and the ant. Namely, it reminded him that the winter solstice would pass, and the living spring would come, and Mr. S would be left short on excuses to host more parties.

Really, though, the entire situation only brought into focus his main problem: that there were assassins in the household in the first place.

Schwarz had left him early in the morning in order to interrogate Pyrrha, and this abandonment left Mr. S feeling a lot more nervous than he would have liked. The party season, though he'd asked for it, left him in the company of very large crowds. Without Schwarz, it became very difficult for him to walk anywhere without being hounded by that paranoid feeling that had arisen ever since the attack.

And so he picked up several random plates full of food, secluded himself in one of the private meeting rooms, and there accessed the castle security system.

Once there, he subjected himself to a marathon of the camera archives, trying to find out who had poisoned Mr. Schnee.

Really, this wasn't the first time he'd thought to do such a thing, but several things waylaid him until now. For one, he was a busy man these days, and, despite his continual promises that he'd take a day off to get things sorted, something always seemed to come up: whether it be an assassination attempt or another, more dangerous, assassination attempt.

The second issue was more subtle.

You see, as far as Mr. S could register, most of the world currently thought him crazy, for various reasons. And he didn't much feel like adding to it by throwing out crazy accusations of paranoid suspicion.

So, in order to avoid this, Mr. S resolved to do the preliminary investigation himself. Once he'd gone though the camera footage, he'd find the suspect, and report them to Schwarz. It was all so simple.

There was just one complication that hindered it.

Mr. S searched again through the archived footage. He crossed a look at the wall clock: this was the fifth hour he'd spent studying that thirty minute span of time so critical to him.

He rewinded and paused and replayed that particular scene a hundred times, from a dozen different camera angles.

And, after all his hours of study, he'd come to one conclusion.

His food had been poisoned in transit, in a hallway that was just in between the kitchen and the main suite.

There was one problem, however.

You see, just before his food was due to arrive, and just After Thetis had made her quiet entrance, the critical cameras shut off, for just long enough to allow the trolly - and it's tamperers - to pass by undetected.

Now, who could have done that, Mr. S wondered.

* * *


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter 40**

* * *

Malevolent sparks lit up the chief counselors eyes.

"Mr. Schnee," she said, no longer maintaining that warm, confidential tone of voice she'd entered the room with, "I fail to see how interfering with your cameras is sufficient reason for you to lock up a free citizen inside your manor like this."

"Interfering with the house security system is a matter of national security," Mr. S replied, looking evenly up at her from where he sat at his desk.

"That," the counselor seethed, "is the worst of legal sophistry."

"There _is_ precedent for it."

"Perhaps," she admitted, calming, "but I've never seen any precedent that would allow you to lock up foreign nationals on a whim, Schnee."

"Have you read the Gaius cases?" Mr. S asked.

"Those were from the second century," the chief counselor seethed, eye twitching.

"Hm," Mr. S looked up, resolving to check the dates of court cases from then on.

Really, though, Mr. S knew he didn't have the right. Despite all his mad scrambling through the court records, locking someone up inside your house without trial was apparently considered a crime.

And, apparently, it wasn't a crime that anyone was willing to overlook, even for just a week, as Mr. S woke up that morning to half the Atlas police, several delegations form Minstral, and various executives of subsidiary companies readying to knock his doors down and give him a talking to.

A new series of protests lit up outside his palace, led by a delegation from the Mistral embassy.

Schwarz, bless her heart, had thrown herself completely to his defense, despite her initial reluctance, and was now the sole bearer of his banner in that regard.

She was probably the only thing keeping him out of jail, actually.

And, really, she impressed Mr. S with how detailed a knowledge of the law she possessed. He'd seen her fencing with professional lawyers and winning, despite the fact that Mr. S was obviously guilty.

As Schwarz had explained it, there actually _was_ some precedent for Mr. S's unprecedented actions.

Because - and, hear her out here - you see, technically, Thetis, by interfering with castle security, had proven herself to be an enemy of the Schnees. And Atlas law allowed people to defend their homes. Included in this causus belli for defense, was the right to detain a person who had entered your home uninvited or - and this is the crucial part - made themselves an enemy once they'd been invited in.

So therefore, technically, really, if you think about it, really hard, Mr. Schnee's extended detainment of Thetis was actually completely legal.

The various interested parties looked at this argument, rolled their eyes, and went: fine, but can you hand her over to the police and file charges like a normal person, now?

Mr. S said no.

Or, rather, he'd been prepared to say no before Schwarz harshly interrupted him and started her own, more reasonable, negotiations.

And after these negotiations, they'd agreed, after some serious haggling, that Mr. Schnee would turn Thetis over to the police… next week.

And so we return to Mr. S's and the chief counselor.

"Return Thetis," the counselor said sternly, interrupting Mr. S's various musings.

"I am returning her," Mr. S said, sticking loyally to the script Schwarz had outlined for such occasions.

"Now," the counselor deadpanned.

"Well, as I said before," Mr. S said, enjoying himself a bit too much, now, "Thetis represents an existential threat to the Schnee Manor, Atlas, and perhaps even the entire world. We will return her as soon as we are able; but in order to do so, we need to create some specialized equipment and procedures to ensure her handling is held off in a safe manner. This takes time."

Mr. S tried to look earnest and somber about the whole situation, though he found it hard not to be giddy, now that he was undoubtedly so close to discovering the true nature of his enemies.

"We'll help you in any way we can, and the Atlas police have offered more than fair terms for her release; stop stalling." The counselor was growing increasingly frustrated.

"Ah, but there is a precedent for this, isn't there?" Mr. S said. "As I recall, the house has complete control over the security situation of the Schnee Manor. And, in exercise of this right, we've decided that a week of preparation is necessary before we can allow Thetis into your custody. I'm sure you understand."

"Oh, I understand more than you think," the counselor said and with those words left off. Mr. S was left in a quiet room; Schwarz decompressed beside him, trying not to show how high strung she'd been, as she observed the interrogation in silence.

She was happy that they'd won that altercation, although she was confused as to why they'd put themselves in the position of needing to win it.

It wasn't like Mr. Schnee to keep her so out of the loop like this. But Schwarz managed it with little complaint.

The phone then rang, drawing their attention.

Mr. S picked up. "Hello," he answered, lifting the desk phone to his ear and leaning back in his chair.

"Please just let her go," Ironwood went straight to the point, sounding very tired, as one might when at the tail end of several, loud arguments.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Mr. S replied.

"Jacques, this isn't like you," Ironwood said, trying to sound convincing. "Just look at the news, what are you hoping to gain from this?"

"I'll let her go, we just need to organize the security situation beforehand," Mr. S promised.

"Is this because she dressed up like a faunus at the Winter Solstice celebration?" Ironwood guessed. "Would it help if I got her to-"

"No, Ironwood, it wouldn't. I'll release her at my leisure, now if you could stop bothering me about this?" Mr. S asked, hoping for a good response.

The line hung up, and Mr. S was left with a dialing noise in his hand. Perhaps he ought to smooth things over with the man later. For now, though, Mr. S had to focus on his own plans, his very important plans, the ones which would surely fix everything in a timely manner.

…

It was at this point that Mr. S recognized that he had no such plan.

All he had was one hostage - well, suspect - that was drawing a lot of international criticism. No leads, no method of investigation, and not to mention, no idea who actually poisoned him. Thetis was just the accomplice who shut off the camera.

Of course, the thought came for him to tell Schwarz everything and have her deal with it.

But… well, she was a suspect.

Not a very big suspect, and really Mr. S didn't doubt at all that she was loyal, but he was still reluctant to bring the topic up with her, or anyone, really.

Because, if he told her there was a poison assassin, Schwarz would naturally ask: "but how do you know there's an assassin?"

And Mr. S still had not come up with a convincing enough explanation that didn't involve the truth.

So, for now, he was determined to figure things out by himself.

* * *

Ruby woke up early in the morning, worries disturbed her.

She walked the far side of the garden grounds for a second time. The early morning was heavy and the starlight was dim beneath it. The unmarked dirt paths forced her to walk slowly, an unusually dry feature in the usually snow capped landscape. And she had just walked out of the miniature forest, the trees barely twice her height, and onto transition zone between the canopy and the grass.

Here, it was mostly open plain, every so often a small oak or apple tree stood a post along the path, ready to greet her as she walked along. And it was just as Ruby passed just such a tree that Pyrrha jumped out.

"Your money or your life!" she shouted, unabashed to have her voice tearing loudly through the early morning peace.

Ruby's voice was quite a few octaves higher, and somehow louder as she shrieked at the appearance of the darkly figure.

"Hahahahahaha!" Pyrrha burst into laughter, hunching over and paying little attention to the crimson Scythe Ruby clutched against herself like a safety blanket, staring wide eyed at the maniacally laughing girl. "I scared you, didn't I!" Pyrrha accused. "I thought you patch kids never let your guard down!"

Ruby burst into tears, looking away from Pyrrha slightly as she hugged her clutched Crecent Rose with some passion.

"Oh, Ruby," Pyrrha straightened up with a more serious expression, looking more depressed now at the reaction. "I didn't mean to scare you that badly."

"No!" Ruby denied, sniffling and somehow unable to control the volume of her voice. "I don't care about the prank! But, look at everyone, Pyrrha! Jaune can't look at you anymore, Nora almost attacked you, Ren hasn't talked in weeks! And your mom's in jail! And you're just out here making jokes! I mean, I was always ok when you were sad, but… do you even care about us, anymore, Pyrrha!? Are we even still friends?"

Pyrrha took on an unduly somber look, and leant back against the tree, and she stayed there, looking down at the road until Weiss's sobs petered off into the darkness.

"I'm ashamed, Ruby," Pyrrha said at last.

"Wha-?'

"Because I killed Penny," Pyrrha explained, taking off from the tree and pacing across the dirt pathway.

"Pyrrha that wasn't your-"

"Yes it was. Everyone says it's not my fault, but no one will stand to be with me. Everyone says I was under an illusion but they all grow scared when I come around. Everyone says I'm not responsible, but they all think differently."

"It's not your fault."

"No! You're wrong," Pyrrha said. "Even if it wasn't my fault, I'm still responsible... for everything."

"What are you saying?" Ruby said, in a softer voice now, as she tried to wrap her mind around the girl's words.

"You wouldn't understand," Pyrrha shook her head with bitter feeling.

Ruby remained quiet, unsure of what to say.

"It doesn't matter, anyway," Pyrrha said. "Even if the entire world absolved me, even if I didn't consider myself responsible, I'd still be ashamed, Ruby, more ashamed than you can imagine. Here-" Pyrrha pointed at a spot just beneath her neck, "Penny touched me here when she died. I think she was trying to ask me something."

"Pyrrha, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying I know how I can forgive myself."

"How?" Ruby asked, a hopeful note coming to her voice.

Pyrrha seemed on the verge of answering but, going by the conflicted look that crossed her face, apparently thought better of it.

"Good night, Ruby," Pyrrha answered, and turned away.

* * *

Later that morning, Mr. S woke up to the screeches of the various affronted parties cataloged above.

After he'd dealt with the head counselor and Ironwood, he, as we'd left him, found himself with little to do after this except to look pointlessly over the security footage.

He did this in secret, on the small screen of his scroll, because he was still determined to keep the entire affair hidden from Schwarz.

Because, explaining to her how he know about the assassin would be some trouble yet, and he was confident he could handle-

BEEP BEEP BEEP

An alarm sounded nearly leaping Mr. S's hear out of his chest.

He barely needed to look at his scroll to see that Thetis had escaped, and that Pyrrha had helped her to do so, and that they were both headed for his direction.

Because, of course, if Thetis had been one of the people who tried to kill him, she'd obviously try to come back for another go. And, this time, why not bring her maiden daughter along to finish the job?

…

"Ahhh!" Mr. S screamed with effort, kicking open the doorway to the next room, where Schwarz lay back on a couch watching something on her tablet - which she'd perched on her chest - and drinking some boxed juice through a straw.

Schwarz turned her eyes to look at him, but Mr. S was already hovering over her, speaking with paranoid riddles.

"Schwarz, I don't want to alarm you, but there may be-"

"Oh, don't worry, Pinkamena's already handled it," Schwarz said, still keeping half an eye on her tablet, and somehow looking incredibly professional as she tried to milk the waning seconds of her ending break time.

"What?" Mr. S looked down at his scroll, flipping through several channels until he found the right one, with Thetis and Pyrrha sitting in a cell, and a stern looking Winter looking over them as Pinkamena saluted over to the woman.

"Oh," Mr. S conceded, sitting on a nearby couch. He shook his head. "Still, that's not the whole of the issue," he said, voice growing serious.

Schwarz sat up immediately at his tone, looking directly into his eyes with the natural stature of his most trusted confidant. She didn't speak, merely directing her attention onto him as she lay aside her items.

Mr. S took a breath. "I think there may be an assassin, or assassins, in this manor."

Schwarz, unlike in his worst fears, hardly batted an eye at the proposition.

"Do you know who they are?" she asked, a slight tilt coming to her head.

"I know they were in hall B12 last thursday."

"What time?" Schwarz asked, picking up her tablet and parsing through the security footage.

"Around about 11:58," Mr. S said,

"There's no footage of hall B12 at that time," Schwarz said.

"I know, that's the problem. I think someone may have poisoned the food that was on the automated dessert trolley passing through the area at the time."

Schwarz rewound the footage, looking at the area from several different angles, and confirmed to herself the existence of the dessert trolley. She nodded at the confirmation.

"It's unusual for so many cameras to go out simultaneously," Schwarz noted, talking more to guide her thought process than to communicate. "Besides, there would have been system warnings if this happened due to a malfunction."

And boy, Mr. S decided, was that an understatement.

Because "Hall B12" was not a small side alley. It was one of the main arterys that ran through the system that was the Schnee manor. It was a sixteenth of a mile long and several dozen yards wide, with gleaming floors and high lights illuminating it, as it connected various other side passages. At any one time, during such a busy party, a hundred or more individuals could have been passing through the hallway at the time.

In all, it had taken the trolley about a minute to just cross the hallway. And that was a dark minute indeed for the cameras, during which anything might have happened.

"Why do you think someone tried to poison your food, specifically?" Schwarz spoke with decidedly calm tones, although a hard coolness fell over her voice at the thought.

"Call it a hunch," Mr. S decided, hoping she wouldn't press him further.

Schwarz didn't, and continued without further delay. "Follow me," she said at last, putting aside the tablet and standing up.

The hologram consisted of a multi colored extravaganza of translucent lines. Each line ran an indeterminate length across the whole of the thing, and intersected beautifully with the various, living dots that hung scattered throughout the search space.

Mr. S was in awe, seeing it. It was beautiful.

"What is it?" he asked, turning to Schwarz.

"It's a forty dimensional relation space," she answered.

Mr. S, despite the alien terminology, actually kind of knew what she was talking about.

"What is it tracking?" he asked.

"People's relationships in this castle," Schwarz answered, leaning down so that her face was close to the floating object. "These dots," she pointed a finger at a particularly bright example "represent instances of an individual. The lines are various types of relationships between them. A person's instance is automatically created when they enter their castle, and all the interactions they engage in are tracked by the cameras and updated automatically here." Schwarz pointed at two bright examples, which highlighted themselves at her gesture. "See," she gestured a hand, blowing up the picture, "these two instances are us,"

Mr. S looked at the two glowing dots, and could see several warbling lines of various colors humming between them like guitar strings. Other, dimmer, dormant lines could be seen going to other dots, and several active ones which connected to other, square-like objects in the map.

"Ok, and what does this do?"

"Well, you'll see if we go to Darkata the eleventh, 11:58 pm.

The map switched suddenly at her prompt, looking very different.

"Mr. Schnee, enter contact dates, desert trolley serial number G5G5FDS4."

And the map grew suddenly dark, limiting its prospect to only the brightly glowing dot that Mr. S guessed resprisented Mr. Schnee, as well as one square object that he guessed represented the dessert trolley that carried the poisoned food.

"Reserve secondary contacts."

And suddenly the lines exploded out again, flowering out into a sparser version of what it had looked like earlier.

"And these," Mr. S gestured to the numerous dots that suddenly appeared on the page, "I guess are the primary suspects."

"They're the people who were in a position to interact with the trolley during the time specified. There is some uncertainty due to the tampered cameras." Schwarz gestured to the map, highlighting the dotted lines, which likely represented such uncertainty. "So in essence, this represents everyone who was in the hallway at 11:58," Schwarz said.

Mr. S, looking at the newly expanded map, guessed that there were a thousand subjects who had passed through the hallway over the course of that minute, and nearly all of them were tethered with inconclusive lines. To ward off the depressing thoughts that came with the analysis, Mr. S decided to ask some more interesting questions.

"You know, this is actually quite ingenious," he said, talking as if he were completely unworried. And in a sense, that was true now. The simple task of going over the situation with such clarity had done much to help him calm himself. "What security system is this for?" Mr. S asked, not recognizing the innovation from the list of security systems the Schnee Manor had bought.

"Oh, we didn't buy this, It's custom made," Schwarz said.

"Oh, who made it?" Mr. S asked.

"I did," Schwarz answered.

"What?" Mr. S looked over at her.

"Oh, don't worry, I only worked on it during my free time," Schwarz said, almost laughing bashfully as she looked down at the thing with intense interest. "It was more of a hobby project, actually, and-"

"Oh, please don't apologize," Mr. S said, shell shock ringing his words. "Really, I should commend you. But, uh… why did you make it?"

"Well, in case you were ever assassinated," Schwarz said with a cool deadpan.

And Mr. S couldn't really argue with that.

"Anyway, where do we go from here?" he asked, trusting that Schwarz, who seemed to have all the answers so far.

"Well, to be honest, our search space is pretty big," Schwarz scratcged the back of her head. "And, I don't really think we'll be able to go to the police with this," Schwarz admitted.

"Why not?"

"Well, you remember how you told me this was all based on a hunch?"

"Oh," Mr. S corrected himself, having forgotten how crazy he objectively sounded, blinded to the fact by the great seriousness Schwarz showed to his concerns.

"Can't we just hold them in custody, or lock down the palace and question them one by one?"

"That's what I was planning, but we may run into some trouble if we try to do it now."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the number of them sir. And many of them are contractors, not servants. Trying to detail all of them...

Mr. S recalled the recent excitement with Thetis. And then his eyes lit up, at the potential solution she may have provided.

"Well, we already have one collaborator in custody," Mr. S turned to Schwarz on the sly, "maybe we can convince her to tell us who the others are?"

* * *

"For the last time, we weren't heading for you," Thetis sighed with an exasperated look. "My idiot daughter broke me out in the vain hope that I might be able to repair her friend. And, as the security footage will show, we were heading to Dr. Polendina's lab."

Mr. S, at Schwarz's insistence, had carefully kept away from any talk of poison, not wanting them to catch on to his true intentions.

And, in service of this, he stayed mostly quiet during the interrogation, letting Schwarz do most of the talking.

"Why did you come to the Schnee manor?" Schwarz asked, for what had to be the twelfth time.

"Because my daughter asked for me," Thetis responded, with all the bored familiarity of a veteran suspect.

"Why did you ask your daughter to invite you here?"

"Because-" Thetis interrupted herself with a scrunched look of her brow, "because I didn't ask her to invite me. She invited me of her own volition." She looked with some respect at Schwarz, smiling at how she'd almost caused her to slip up.

Schwarz sighed. She was a tough nut to crack.

Pyrrha sat dejectedly in the next cell, looking down at the floor between her crossed fingers. Winter kept her company.

Schwarz knew she'd have to make a report of this, and dreaded to imagine the reaction that might ensue when the world found out that the Fall Maiden, too, was now under Schnee custody.

And Mr. S was feeling the pressure of the situation, too.

The Thetis debacle had been bad enough, and had restarted all the dying riots that rose up after the dust palace incident. Free Thetis was already trending. Add the Fall Maiden on top of it… Well, Ozpin and the Council were unlikely to be happy. Not to mention, the rest of the world would just see him imprisoning a teenage girl…

"How long until we have to report this?" Mr. S asked.

"I can push it off for twenty four hours, but that's if everyone agrees to remain silent."

At this point, Weiss came in, dragging behind her the mortified remnants of her own team, as well as that of Juniper.

"I am telling the _entire_ world that you've got Pyrrha down here if you don't release her this instant!" Weiss said, not yelling, but rather speaking in that eternally sure tone of voice that seemed to preclude any bargaining.

"Uh… yeah," Ruby said behind her, trying to sound as supportive as she was confused.

"Uh… I also agree," Jaune said, standing in front of the group. "You can't just… like, arrest us without trial. That's illegal, I think."

"Yeah!" Nora said, hefting her hammer up in two hands like it was a trophy.

A sudden spike of adrenaline went through Mr. S.

Everything, the map, the assassin, the one thousand suspects, Thetis, ran through him like a driven spear. All of it seemed on the verge of collapsing just because of these uncooperative…

And, a bit of self awareness dawned in Mr. S.

Because, you see, he recognized this level of adrenaline, for it had become familiar to him. And he recognized it's effects, too.

Right about now, Mr. S realized, in a jittering panic, he would probably get into a back and forth with Weiss before, somehow, managing to end on a pithy phrase that said the worst thing possible in the situation.

Mr. S had grown up from that, now, however, and decided to skip the back and forth.

"Schwarz," he said, not looking away from the gathered crowd.

"Yes, sir?" Schwarz asked.

"Arrest them."

* * *


	41. Chapter 41

Chapter 41

* * *

The entertainment system was covered by brilliant lights, decorated with flashing LED's. Hastily set up, numerous wires crawled to it across the tiled floor like mechanical vines, connecting the main projector to several cabinets worth of computers and game systems.

A couch was oddly positioned - a sign of it's recent move - so as to stare upon the electronic monolith.

The couch and the entertainment system were in the center of the airy villa. Glass windows lined two of the walls, offering tantalizing views of the snowy inner garden. Yet, despite the conditions outside, the air was warm and comforting, and soothing music played across all the speakers.

A small army of trusted servants had been gathered to attend to the guests, and Farbe, one of the few chosen for the task, had the distinct pleasure of watching over Weiss Schnee.

"Would you like anything, Ms. Schnee?" Farbe asked, smiling sweetly at the girl, a towel hanging on her folded arm.

"No." Weiss scowled and spoke with such venom that Farbe, as well as the rest of the attending servants, were quickly repulsed from the couch.

Weiss crossed her arms and hunched deeper into her seat, sparing betrayed looks at her apathetic friends.

Ruby sat to her immediate left, jostling Weiss whenever her character looked to be on the verge of falling and the girl threw out the controller as if the action would help the war-god on the screen jump any further.

Ren and Nora were to her immediate right, cuddling.

They annoyed her for some reason, especially since Ruby - not so good at this game and not any better at remembering that the buttons were what mattered - again dug a hard elbow into Weiss's side.

Blake was nowhere to be seen, and that made Weiss resent Ren and Nora all the more.

Jaune was on the far side of the room, playing with a holo-strat of some sort. And Pyrrha was on the far opposite corner from Jaune, sulking alone at a table; or, she would have been alone if it weren't for Winter shadowing her, and sitting on the chair just beside her's, casually flipping through a pocketbook.

Weiss turned away from the sulking maiden and looked back at the entertainment system.

Ruby had started the game five hours ago, and was still on the tutorial. Weiss, despite the fact that she didn't care, had even tried to give advice to the lost girl, only to be rudely denied with a: "Shhh! I wanna figure it out for myself," as Ruby fixed a determined grin onto the machine and flexed her fingers in preparation.

"...so arise, great hero, and defend Avalon from the dark lord." The melodic voice of the angelic woman reverberated through the room, and Weiss felt Ruby hunch forward beside her.

Weiss was subjected to another rendition of the four minute long opening sequence before Ruby was once again loosed into the open world.

Once there, Ruby mounted her horse and rode to the broken bridge, where she stopped at the precipice, turned the camera to look down at the great fall and- taking a deep breath- rode back several lengths to get a running start, and, finally, like clockwork, hit the invisible wall and failed to make the jump.

Again, the failure was highlighted with a painful jolt of Ruby's elbow into Weiss's side.

"Aghh!" Weiss jumped up to a stand, yelling in frustration.

"Ahh!" Ruby cowered away from the girl, dropping the controller and lifting an arm to cover herself as she looked up at her teammate with worry.

"What is wrong with all of you!" Weiss yelled, directing the statement everywhere. "We should be escaping!"

"Never gonna happen, sweetheart!" Sky said, not looking away from her scroll as she reclined on a distant couch.

Weiss, happy for the opportunity, jumped over the couch she and Ruby had been sitting on, landing on the other side with a hard click, and walked purposefully over to Sky.

Sky still hadn't bothered to look up from her scroll by the time Weiss arrived. "And you think you can stop us, if we wanted to escape?" Weiss asked, speaking slowly and interrupting herself with occasional gestures of her head.

"Natch," sky answered, flicking a thumb over her scroll screen.

"There are six of us!" Weiss yelled.

"And how much did that help you the last four times?" Sky barbed good naturedly.

Weiss straightened in annoyance. "That was only due to that… teleporting fiend getting in our way."

"Yeah, ok, look," Sky said, finally looking away from whatever captured her attention on her scroll, "Pinks is still here, first of all. She's in the second room taking a break," Sky gestured with a thumb at the tall wooden doors. "And, two, none of you are getting away while any one of us is here. Maybe try again once you graduate high-school."

Sky returned to her scroll, and Weiss left off seething.

Her more recent attempts to galvanize her teammates had been met with… less than complete success.

She looked in disgust at how quickly they'd capitulated, and at how easily they'd taken to all the new toys he'd showered them with. Gods, he wasn't even trying to be subtle! She looked once again at the entire corner of the room that had been filled with haphazardly placed arcade fixtures, one of which was quite literally encased with gold wire.

The imagery frightened her. And it wasn't her detainment that caused this feeling, but rather how easily she'd come to… trust the man. This new and sudden betrayal had actually hurt her in a way Mr. Schnee hadn't managed since she was child, since the last time she'd opened her heart to him without guardedness... gods! she couldn't believe it: he'd treated her like dirt for seventeen years! Was she really so desperate that - after one act of kindness - she'd been willing to blind herself to his faults. He spends decades trapping her at the manor, and she has the gall to act surprised when he does it again! She shook herself as she walked back to the couch, lost for nothing else to do.

Weiss had grown adept at suppressing her emotions. She'd lost this faculty at beacon, but quickly found herself remembering why she'd developed it in the first place. Weiss had… become emotional, of late, and made irrational decisions, and hurt her friends because of it. And, no matter how little she showed it, the feeling burned inside her at all the times. And she was determined she wouldn't allow herself to fall prey to her weaknesses again. She wouldn't allow father to harm her friends.

It was obvious to her now, that he only allowed her friends to stay so he could trap her here. He'd guessed, probably, that he could drive her back under his thumb despite their presence; that he could control all of them. Well, Weiss was content to let him try! She would remain vigilant to everything from now on, and, no matter what, she would never allow herself to let her guard around him again! That was a promise.

Weiss comforted herself with one thought as she headed back to the couch. She knew the procedure as well as anyone, and she knew that her father would be forced to report their detainment within 24 hours. At which point, Weiss knew, the police would become involved.

Weiss, with a discomforting rationality, admitted to herself that she would be staying at the manor either way. No matter how much she hated her father, it was still too dangerous to leave. Still, she knew how powerful a bargaining chip the admission of their detainment would be: and she knew, no matter how much he resented it, father would be coming to speak with them before the 24th hour was up.

And, looking at the clock, and at the moonlight which reflected off the snowbanks outside, Weiss counted that they were running on their twelfth hour.

Weiss wasn't one to fall to emotional impatience. She knew with a cool certainty that her father was in the weaker bargaining position, and that the longer things went on, the more desperate he was sure to be.

And then the door opened, and Mr. S, flanked by Pinkamena one one side and Beryl on the other, with Schwarz taking the lead in front of him, entered with a neutral expression.

Mr. S, who at this point trusted Schwarz more than he trusted himself, readily agreed to allow her to handle the important negotiations. So it was that he stayed by the doors while Schwarz traveled on, heading towards Pyrrha. She arrived at the desk and, after a quick exchange with the pair of maidens seated at the table, led them both towards another set of private doorways, flanked on either side by a wall of bookshelves.

They were stopped before they could reach it, however.

"Wait!" Weiss spoke up, rushing between Schwarz and Pyrrha. "If she goes, we go with her!"

Without speaking, Ruby, Nora, and Ren seemed to agree, showing their solidarity by standing up with the girl.

Schwarz, having been given full autonomy, only deliberated a moment before she nodded. "Very well; this way, Miss Schnee."

The door closed behind them, and Mr. S was left alone in the room with his guards.

Alone with his guards and, notably, Jaune: the blond haired boy who sat entranced by the holo-projector at the desk nearest to Mr. S.

There were two desks in the entire room, placed in opposite corners, without thought or consideration, as the staff hurried to make comfortable surroundings for the newest set of captives. And so, the distance between the desks highlighted a memory for Mr. S, of his first encountered with the fall maiden, and the nervous boy who seemed lost in his game. Mr. S walked over to the desk Jaune sat at. He'd left the important work to Schwarz, so he felt comfortable in talking of unimportant things. Besides, something about the whole situation seemed very _off_ to him.

"How long are the rounds?" Mr. S peeked over the boy's shoulder when he rounded the table, finally close enough to make out the details of the game he was playing.

The question startled Jaune who, though perfectly aware of the recent goings on, seemed weary of the approaching man - who he'd hoped would ignore him.

"Uh, what?" Jaune croaked, looking up at Mr. S.

"The rounds," Mr. S gestured again at the hexagonal plane that stretched out over the desk, and over which various tank units and robotic soldiers marched against enemy counterparts.

Jaune found himself uncomfortably engaged in conversation with Mr. Schnee. He hadn't heard good things about the man since… ever, and it felt like a crime to be talking to him. Still, he was already in jail, Jaune supposed.

"Well, about forty moves, at this difficulty," Jaune answered.

"Ah, it's turn based," Mr. S was already observing the rapidly changing numbers displayed over each unit, trying not to get distracted by the otherworldly graphics. He wasn't much of a gamer, but he still knew a thing or two. And so he fell silent, and Jaune kept playing, and, very quickly, Mr. S picked up that the boy was losing; quite badly, too. And the game continued, and the boy met the challange until, at last, the red siren of defeat played, and bold words spelling out as such hovered over the disintegrating battlefield.

Jaune looked to be on the verge of collapsing face first onto the desk.

Mr. S almost laughed. "I take it that wasn't your first loss?"

"It wasn't my twentieth," Jaune admitted dejectedly.

"Want some advice?"

"You have advice?" Jaune looked skeptically up at the man behind him.

"Well, I have noticed that Atlesian reinforcement rates cool-down faster when your infantry units take damage," Mr. S offered, letting the boy run with the implications of the statement.

Jaune blinked at the prescient bit of advice and immediately restarted the game, sending several of the robotic humanoids into the center valley, and hiding his tanks behind the hill shadow, this time keeping a close eye on the cool down bar.

And, as the game continued, Jaune paused ever so slightly at the beginning of each move. He was actually keeping his unit in tact!

"So, mind if I ask you a question, now?" Mr. S asked.

"Shoot," Jaune answered, too ensnared by the sudden turn of fortune to let his inhibitions lead.

"Why does that Pyrrha girl seem to dislike you so much?"

This was asked just as several of his units blew up under the new pressure, and Jaune, to tell by his look, didn't seem to be doing much better.

"Well, I wouldn't say she dislikes me, per se," Jaune trailed off, looking disappointed at the expectant look that held Mr. S's expression. "It's just she's been like… that, ever since the attack."

"Why?"

"Well, she had a lot of responsibility… or she felt she had it, and she blames herself, because someone we cared about was hurt."

"Who?"

"Penny."

"The robot?" Mr. S said, looking confused at the prospect.

"She wasn't just a robot," Jaune answered, some real sadness in his pain. "She-"

"Was an artificial intelligence," Mr. S finished for him, mind rattling with implications.

"She was human," Jaune finished, looking down before focusing back on his game, trying to drown his thoughts out in the tactics.

"Then, why does Pyrrha seem to dislike you, then? More than everyone else?" Mr. S shook his head, trying to stay on track, and doing a poor job of cushioning his words, so abruptly the derailment induced itself upon him. He gestured notably to the side door, through which everyone but him had followed the maiden.

"Well… she was fighting with Cinder, and it looked like the fight was coming to an end..." Jaune trailed.

"Ok?"

"Well, I was worried about _how_ it would end, exactly," Jaune answered. "Pyrrha was stronger, bus she'd just gotten her Maiden powers, and Cinder had already gotten used to them!' Jaune spoke more energetically now, hitting the keys on the game pad with more sudden violence, directing the words as if he were trying to justify himself and convince Mr. S of his proposition.

"Hold on, what are you saying?" Mr. S asked, reigning him in with a raised hand.

"I… well, I thought she'd be safer if she didn't fight?"

"What did you do?"

"I... uh, shoved her in a locker," Jaune answered, looking almost abashed.

"I get the feeling a locker couldn't really have held her."

"It was a flying locker," Jaune clarified.

"...ok." Mr. S said, not really seeing the clarification.

"And, well, it didn't hold her, but it did allow time for Cinder to get away," Jaune finished, sounding almost ashamed at the prospect..

"Well," Mr. S spoke suddenly, directing his words to the quieting boy, "if it's any consolation, I think you showed great care for your friend, in that act."

"Yeah," Jaune chuckled nervously.

And, strange as it was to say, Mr. S noticed in the boy a sudden investment towards the outcome of the game. For the level was in it's closing stages, now, and Jaune seemed barely capable of winning. It was as if the sudden revelations had imbued the level with a special emotional piquancy, and Jaune just really needed a victory from the whole ordeal, even if it was in a stupidly frustrating game.

And, stranger to say, Mr. S felt a sudden need to achieve victory as well. Unable to help himself, he started throwing out pointers, as Jaune reached the end game - though the boy was fully ignoring him now, invested in the potential outcome.

Mr. S fell silent too, after a time, paying close attention to the bars and numbers as they ran through his memory.

And, as the game drew to a close, and Jaune's forces collapsed, it soon became clear that this was far from a winning strategy. It wasn't even close! And Mr. S felt unduly affronted, that the strategy he'd offered jaune was completely unworkable, and only seemed to lead to a humiliating defeat in a drawn out endgame.

Mr. S swallowed his disappointment, quickly forgetting the game when Schwarz exited the room and made her way to him.

Mr. S stepped away from the table, and found himself guided to a quiet corner where Schwarz briefed him on the matter.

"I've come to an understanding with them, sir" Schwarz said. "They won't speak of this to anyone, and they've agreed to allow us to keep their scrolls until the end of the week. I hope those are terms you can be satisfied with, sir. I felt trying to ask for much more would damage our relations."

Mr. S blinked. That was- a complete victory. Seriously, he needed to give this girl a raise sometimes.

"Uh, no," he said, "that's perfect. What are they asking for in return?"

"They wish for you to allow Thetis to examine Penny's body. Pyrrha is convinced her mother will be able to help repair the damaged portions."

"Hmm, is there any danger in allowing this?"

"Not to us, sir. Besides which, the damaged portions are inaccessible to Thetis's semblance."

"So, she won't be able to repair the girl?" Mr. S asked, a sudden sadness biting into his tone. Having just learned of the robot's nature, he became unsettled by her death.

"It's doubtful, sir," Schwarz admitted.

Mr. S sighed.

"Let her try," he said.

* * *

Mr. S had gone by the time Penny arrived, her charred corpse carted in through the doors by a pair of nervously attending nests.

Weiss, Pyrrha, Blake, Nora, Jaune, Ren, and Ruby stood in a wide semi-circle around the center of the room, which had been cleared of everything, and to which Penny had been displaced.

"Don't trust him," Weiss murmured.

The rest of them, held in stark quiet, heard the words crisply and looked over to her.

Weiss was angry at her earlier foolishness, and carried with great dedication her earlier conviction to protect her teammates, and to never trust him.

Most of all, though, she was angry that Blake, who had been avoiding her for the past several days, was now, on this important occasion, refusing to stand beside her, hiding on the other side of Pyrrha as if that were a perfectly natural place for her to be on this occasion. Still, despite this, Weiss felt the carnage of the words as she spoke them.

"He hasn't gotten to where he has because he's unsociable. He'll do a million nice things for you: and it's fine if you take advantage of it, but don't think for a moment he cares about anything except himself. He's a snake."

"Weiss," Pyrrha smiled nervously down at the girl, trying to reconcile her as she stared, every so often, nervously over at Penny's cloth-covered body, "may it not be better to-"

"He'll do it whether I say nice things about him or not," Weiss snapped, "so stop your worried looks." Weiss waved a hand dismissively over her shoulder. "If it helps you feel better, that's the last I have to say on the topic."

Pyrrha seemed satisfied with that, and nearly jumped for joy when Thetis arrived, appearing next to the triage bed with Pinkamena's hand on her shoulder.

"Leave us," she commanded, and Pinkamena saluted and left, and the surrounding maids backed carefully away until they were beyond the line that Weiss and her compatriots formed in the distance.

Here Thetis closed her eyes and raised her arms, lifting her blinded gaze into the air.

And then, a slight felt of static mulled it's way into the air before, a second later, disappearing back into the atmosphere.

Thetis opened her eyes, sighed. "It's no good."

"What!?" Pyrrha demanded, nearly collapsing.

"I can't fix her," Thetis said, with unusual certainty.

"You have to!" Pyrrha stepped forward several feet, breaking beyond the curved line of her teammates.

Thetis, for the first time, seemed hesitant about her words. "Perhaps it is best, Pyrrha," she began, looking earnestly into her daughter's eyes, "that you take heart in this, as a lesson of loss."

* * *

The following period was a violent one, to tell by the desk that had been thrown halfway across the room.

And Pyrrha had said many cruel words to her mother, expressing a rage that left everyone flattened against the far walls.

Thetis, despite being the direct recipient, however, was as calm as ever.

"You didn't even try!" Pyrrha gestured, drawing a deep breath to replenish those she'd run out of long ago. "Are you an idiot!? You hold up some static for a second and say you've done everything you can? Did you just come here to steal her blueprints! Are you really so unwilling to actually help someone that isn't yourself for once!"

"Her memory drives are covered in lightning dust, Pyrrha. I can not read her memory, I can only alter it. And any machine devised would cause a destructive reaction with her. I will not tell you this again."

Despite her calm and her words, Thetis felt every blow the accusations, even the false ones, hit upon her. She was not a woman to care about the thought of others- except of course for her beloved daughter, who her burning eyes could look upon with naught but tender care and hurt love, as she tried to justify herself to her.

Pyrrha let out a frustrated cry, and turned away, immediately stomping off to the nearest window.

Opening it violently by the hinge, Pyrrha walked out through the twelve foot tall opening created, letting it a soft breeze that carried the coldness of the semi-temperate Atlas night.

Pyrrha walked several feet out onto the inner courtyard. It was surrounded on all sides by the Schnee manor, as it was carved out from the center of the building. Above, a dome of energy hummed with soft power, protecting it from the elements and the rain. Pyrrha paid this little attention as she walked out onto the snow, feeling the cool substance chilling the lower portion of her shin guards, near the ankles, and seeping in against her skin. And, even through the snow it was notable how easily and confidently Pyrrha walked in her sinking heels, how completely she expressed her contempt for the world and everything about her with the ease with which she mastered her body into motion. And it was equally amazing, in how shot an instant all of that was lost to her. For suddenly she changed figure completely, wilting against gravity and walking unsteadily to the side as she burst into tears. The invincible girl now looked as helpless as a child who, having just learned to walk, seemed to take every step with careful and inexperienced anxiety.

As she walked, she punctuated her cries with a sudden, hard strike of her closed fist against that point on her chest, just beneath her neck, which she'd just this morning pointed out to Ruby as the main source of her shame.

It was Nora who came first after her, the rest of them huddling against the window entrance and looking on.

"Pyrrha!" Nora called after the crying girl, sudden emotion rising in her own voice.

Pyrrha ignored her, leaning heavily against a column.

"It's not your fault, Pyrrha," Nora said.

"Shut up!" Pyrrha said, a sudden danger taking her voice.

"No!" Nora denied, drawing closer. "I won't. We won't! We're your friends, and we're telling you that you have to stop blaming yourself!"

"I said shut up!" Pyrrha clutched her head, wind howling and kicking up a flurry of dry snow around her. An aura of a different color, tormented and roaring rose above her form. And Nora only vaguely noticed the difference between this and the nature of Pyrrha's original.

"Pyrrha!" Nora implored, her voice pitching to its natural, child-like tones. She was forced to yell, now, struggling to be heard over the noise. "We're hunters! You remember you told me that! You said this was the pain that was our own. That even if we lose each other we wouldn't forget-!"

"You've never killed anyone, Nora!" Pyrrha's voice was a tortured scream that rose over the wind, as if enhanced by the element, and carried to spectator ears. "You've never killed a friend! And you'll go your whole life not knowing what I know! So stop pretending to understand!"

"You didn't kill her!" Nora insisted, and, without thinking, reverted to her old habits - the one she'd developed with her old friend - and grabbed the maiden by the arm. "It's not your fault!" she yelled, as she made contact.

"I said shut up!" Pyrrha, anger flashing to unrealistic heights at the unauthorized contact, turned, and she thought lightning may have flashed.

Pyrrha didn't remember hitting Nora, she couldn't answer to where she'd hit her… Nevertheless, Nora was sent flying. Nora hit a pillar and landed with a hard thud.

She didn't get up.

Immediately the wind stopped, and the snow froze in mid air, and Pyrrha felt her heart deaden. Pyrrha froze, looking shocked, with wide eyes, at the scene.

Ren was first there, looking down at the girl with worry. Nora, uncoordinated, coughed, lightning sparking across her form. Jaune arrived not soon after, taking her other arm and helping to lift her up. They all turned, without a word or a look at Pyrrha, and began walking inside.

Ruby and Weiss, and especially Blake stepped aside for them, to let them through, and sent sympathetic looks, but in their turn went after her as well. Pyrrha watched thorough the back-lit window as they lay Nora on a couch. She stood with a hand extended outward. And she felt something rising up inside of her. Pyrrha, that aspect of her rising inside again, felt her eyes dim.

"I'm sorry," she whispered quietly to herself, holding on to the words as memories of a better past.

* * *


	42. Chapter 42

**Chapter 42**

* * *

Blake rocked back against the couch she'd been thrown into. Weiss stood over her with an outstretched hand and a malevolent look. They were tucked away neatly in the corner, and there wasn't as much privacy as Weiss would have liked, but she saw little alternative, with how adept Blake had proven to be at avoiding her.

"Ok, Blake, do you want us to end up like that?" Weiss whispered, looking discretely over at where Ren sat over a deliriously mumbling Nora, wetting her forehead with a towel. Well… either she was deliriously mumbling or talking normally - it was hard to tell when it came to Nora.

Blake only shook her head in the negative.

"Then start talking!" Weiss said. "Why did you run away two nights ago?"

Blake looked down through the corner of her eye.

"Are you not going to tell me?" Weiss leant imposingly over the sitting girl. "Is this something you plan to keep a secret forever?"

Blake still didn't look up from the tiling. "No," she said crisply, "I don't want to hide anything from you."

"Then speak up! Why did you run away!? Was it because of Adam?"

"No!" Blake said. "It didn't have anything to do with Adam!"

"Then who!" Weiss demanded

"Me!" Blake answered finally, drawing in at herself with a pained expression and clutching at the front of her shirt. "It's because of me!" she looked up with tear filled eyes, shaking with the effort it took to admit the words.

Weiss reared back up to a full stand, looking down at the crying girl with genuine confusion. "What do you mean?"

"When Adam attacked you, in the office…" Blake silenced again, assaulted by impetuity.

"Yes?" Weiss crouched low, phrasing her words with more kindness, now. "It wasn't your fault that he attacked us, Blake. I've told you-"

"No!" Blake looked away now. "It's not that!"

"What is it, then?" Weiss asked, taking Blake by the hands.

"I-"

"Yes?" Weiss asked, forgetting herself in the excitement.

"I was there!" Blake admitted at last, tearing the words from herself with painful effort.

Weiss was confused. "Ok?" she said.

"I was looking through the doors when he was threatening you!" Blake said. "I… I ran away Weiss. I was scared and I ran away!"

"You found Winter and told her where we were!" Weiss denied. "That was the smart thing to do!"

"But-!" Blake interrupted herself, thinking over Weiss's words. "You knew I was the one who called Winter!?"

"...yes?'" Weiss answered. "Winter is my sister, you know. She tells me these things."

"Yeah, even I knew, to be honest," Ruby said from where she'd been hiding behind the couch.

"Ruby!" Weiss said, a sudden anger pitching in her voice.

"What?" Ruby asked.

"How long have you been back there?"

"Just for the entire conversation!" Ruby placated.

"What have I told you about eavesdropping!?"

"But I didn't want to be left out!"

Weiss, in anticipation of the statement, had already started rubbing the space between her eyes. "Ruby?" she said.

"Yes?"

"What did I tell you about eavesdropping?" Weiss repeated patiently

"Not to do it?" Ruby answered.

"Then why were you?"

"Uh…" Ruby looked to either side. "Well, really, I think we should be focusing more on Blake, to be honest," she turned suddenly to look at the sitting faunus. "She really needs to stop blaming herself, right Weiss?"

Weiss, despite seeing the tactic perfectly, tumbled over with the slight encouragement and forgot all about Ruby as she turned her attention back to Blake.

"Right, you," she pointed at Blake, all business, "stop blaming yourself this instant."

Blake only looked confused. She shut her eyes and focused very hard for a moment.

"I said stop blaming yourself already!" Weiss said, impatient.

"I'm trying!" Blake said, feeling guilty at how she'd failed Weiss with her inability.

It was at that point that Mr. S came in through the door, which had been blasted open courtesy of Schwarz.

Behind him, a line of technicians in white lab coats followed, carting along various gleaming blocks of technical equipment. And behind them, the robotic whirrs of Dr. Polendina's chair could be heard.

"What are you doing here!" Weiss glared at Mr. S, who was walking at the head, smiling.

"Well, it's a rather long story," Mr. S said, moving to stand beside where Penny's body had been left in the center of the room, "but I think this might be able to resurrect Penny," he said, holding up a short bar of metal.

* * *

Mr. S had missed completely the ensuing tantrum by Pyrrha, having left the room before Penny arrived in it.

He wandered the halls contemplatively, not going in any particular direction and eventually coming to a set of stairs.

By the time he'd reached the second level, he'd again gained access to a wall of windows that looked down into the inner garden; Pyrrha was sulking there alone, half hidden in shadows, and spinning her tiara in the air before her, making it fly around in gentle, hypnotic motions.

Schwarz strayed behind initially, eventually coming to her normal position beside him, once she'd confirmed to herself that the recent compromises hadn't bothered him too much, and that indeed he seemed to be thinking deeply about some other matter. Schwarz, as was customary, only reached the position in order to silently inform the man of her willingness to listen. And, a far cry from his initial reluctance to engage with her, Mr. S now seemed comfortable speaking his most personal thoughts to Schwarz. It was strange, how great of an impression she had made on him in so little time, that he was now so comfortable with the prospect.

"Is there really so little hope for the girl?" Mr. S asked, lifting a hand to his chin, using the new term he'd taken to using when referring to Penny. No longer was she a "robot" in his mind, but rather a "girl". He was invested in her case, and for a moment forgot his own troubles. It was as if he felt guilty for dismissing her death as unimportant earlier, and somehow wished to make up for his unintentionally callous thoughts.

"I'm afraid not, sir;" Schwarz answered him. "Any attempt to salvage her memory would react violently with the dust. The laws of nature are against us in this case."

Mr. S didn't bother to ask if the dust could be cleaned off, fully aware, now, of the strangely unlimited divisibility the substance seemed subject to, and of how notoriously difficult it was to clean off the small particulates of the matter without the use of some rather violent and corrosive medicines.

It was just at this moment that Pietro came into view in the far hall, the feet of his robotic carrier freshly wet with rain water and snowmelt - a testament to his rushed travels through Atlas to get here. He looked… not quite angry, not quite affronted, but rather worried in that strange way of a person who was looking after something hopeless.

"I take it you're here about Penny?" Mr. S asked.

"I was informed that her body had been taken from the workshop."

"It was us that removed it. We came across a potential solution, and circumstances didn't allow us to wait for your arrival, but I can't imagine that was too great a comfort to you," Mr. S said, looking with new empathy towards the man.

"You should know it's a hopeless case," Pietro said, strangely casual as they met in the middle.

"Ah, well, the fall maiden insisted we allow her mother a chance. It's hard to say no to that kind of insistence. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Pietro said, sad, "it's not as if I have any important work left with her."

"What do you mean?"

"Atlas is commissioning another model, they're giving up on salvage efforts."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Mr. S said, and meant it.

"Don't be. It was my council that drove them to it."

Mr. S only shot a surprised look over at the man, before turning his attention back to the line of windows they were both now facing, watching his ghostly reflection floating against the background of the winter garden. Pietro's reflection, he could see, too, and the man seemed resigned, as if the tragedy haunting him had happened decades ago, and he was now only reminiscing.

And that reminiscence brought about a new courage in Mr. S, now that his thoughts had been turned in that direction.

Mr. S said, "why can Penny's memory not be revived?"

Mr. S was normally one who abhorred revealing his ignorance, especially when there were such deadly consequences for doing so too flagrantly under his current circumstances, but he felt the sudden urge to ask the question. He didn't know why, exactly; perhaps it was intellectual curiosity that drove him; but he was left feeling more confused, rather than less, when the question left his lips.

Pietro looked over at him with his own sense of confusion. "Lightning dust is volatile when exposed to a density of field-noms greater than-"

"Why?" Mr. S asked, unfamiliar with the terminology, but getting the feeling that he was onto something. "Why should trying to read the information from a magnetic hard-disk cause such a violent reaction?"

"I'm not sure I understand you," Pietro said, knowing that Mr. Schnee knew too much about dust to be asking about elementary reaction mechanics.

"Why should a reader head cause such a violent reaction in dust?" Mr. S asked again, unceasing as he turned a hard look onto the man.

"Because the lightning dust crystal in the reader head would, when powered, engage in an uncontrolled reaction with the lightning dust that spilled over the memory disk," Pietro said, reciting the elementary mechanics as if he were reading out of a textbook, and looking very confused for it.

"Why?"

"Why, because E-Type lightning dust and M-Type lightning dust are incompatible. They react violently when introduced to each other with enough power. And the scanner head requires power to work. Not to mention that the memory disk, while unpowered, will not react well to such a chain reaction."

"So, both the reader head and the hard disk are made up of lightning dust?" Mr. S asked.

"Yes."

"Then, how did they function without violently interacting?"

"Because both the memory disk and the scanner are both made out of M-Type lightning dust," Pietro said, adding a slight hint of corrective terminology into his explanation.

M-type lightning dust, Mr. S knew, was that type of lightning dust which had been found to have - or been induced into having - magnetic properties. And it had some quite amazing magnetic properties, as the records showed. Mr. S still didn't quite believe in the claims of arbitrarily programmable, point-like, monopoles he'd read about.

"So, if I understand it correctly, some Type-E dust from Penny's power cells leaked onto the M-Type hard disk, and this is the cause of the danger?"

"No, the hard disk is inert when read from. It has no chance of reacting with the volatiles. The cause of the danger is the scanner - it requires power to read the hard disk, and once it receives enough input power, it will by necessity drive a nu-field down into the memory disk. This will cause an explosive reaction with the E-Type dust that's spilled over the memory disk." Doctor Polendina explained, sounding sick at having to repeat the diagnostic that had been haunting his mind for the past several months.

Mr. S, however, was thinking some rather more hopeful thoughts. "Correct me if I'm wrong," he said, "but, as I understand it, what you're saying is that: if there were some way to create a reader head without using lightning dust, we wouldn't have to worry about anything? Since we could then create a magnetic field without also driving a nu-field into the E-Type dust?"

"I'm not sure what the point of this philosophizing is, Mr. Schnee," Pietro said. At this point, he was having trouble concealing his distaste for the man. He had never held any love for Mr. Schnee, and the fact that he'd been forced into working as a personal lackey for the mogul was always a matter of great distaste to Pietro. Not to mention, the recent news of his flagrant crimes did little to assuage the doctor of his ambivalence.

Mr. S didn't respond for the longest time, deep in thought.

His intelligence wasn't challenged by the solution to everybody's problems. He was familiar enough with magnetic reader-heads from earth. Merely, he was struggling with how he might present said solution in a natural seeming fashion. Mr. Schnee was not known for being an expert on hard drives, after all - much less alien hard drives that ran on principles apparently foreign to remnant.

At last, his impatience with indecision flared up, and he threw himself into action. Mr. S wasn't sure, even as he spoke the words, how they would be recieved- but he knew it wouldn't help to wait, if it was suspicious now, it would be suspicious six months from now.

"Dr. Polendina," Mr. S said, looking to the man and failing to hide his half-giddy smile, "are you aware of the phenomenon: whereby ordinary metals can be magnetized, if you run a current through them?"

* * *

At first, Dr. Polendina was more than hesitant. He'd thrown in his way every obstacle and common sense proclamation against the notion.

He'd first admitted that, of course, he knew of the phenomenon. That it was an idle curiosity for hobbyists, and not up to the task of real industry.

But then Mr. S challenged him: they needed results, and non-dust magnetics looked as if they could provide it.

Polendina denied it: it wasn't fit for purpose, he said.

Mr. S countered the increasingly ill fraught denials. The purpose they needed here was something that could create a magnetic field without also creating a nu-field - this seems like the purpose most suited to it.

All of these were met with more skepticism. Months of work by the worlds greatest experts had proven it conclusively, Penny's disk data was trapped, irrevocable, gone... Polendina was nearly certain of his conviction.

But Mr. S had not one doubt of his. He was bolstered with the surety of someone who knew his idea would work before he'd even begun it - someone who'd seen it working, thousands of times before, in every computer he'd seen over the course of his life. And he wasn't about to allow Polendina to reject the offer, considering the great risk Mr. S had undertaken to reveal it to him. But, despite this, Mr. S was held back all the time from defending it to the fullest of his ability. He knew all the answers to Polendina's rash denials, yet he had to force himself to contain his feelings, to withhold the more certain defenses, and base his argument entirely around theoretical vagaries and other baseless conjectures. They weren't bad arguments despite this, but they were lacking in certainty, they were the arguments an armature might make when dreaming about subjects beyond his comprehension.

Polendina, however, was an expert in his field; and, armed with such a toolkit as he was, Mr. S was ill equipped to combat him on any fair level, even if he did have the facts on his side.

"Non dust magnetics can not read the disk with a high enough fidelity. You may be right that, theoretically, they can measure changes in magnetic field orientation, and, yes, if were trying to read off of a drum head, this might be useful, but nano-scale data storage in Atlas's most advanced architecture to date is something that's rather a bit too sophisticated for such primitive tools." Doctor Polendina denied resoundingly. He spoke still in that warm, fatherly voice that had come to characterize him in Mr. S's eyes. It seemed he was incapable from breaking from it, even when speaking in the rough tones of someone who was tired of being reminded. And, still, he held in his voice a hint of... _condescension_ , at the ignoramus who had proposed such a preposterous idea.

Mr. S, much like Polendina, was a proud man, at the top of his field, and used to the high regard afforded to him by his colleagues. And he was also a content man, with very few quibbles about his life and chosen profession. Among those few things that angered him, were condescension, gate keeping, and people who thought they knew better than him. And, though Polendina perhaps had reasonable cause for assuming those things, Mr. S still did not like the sting of rejection; he couldn't stand to be faced with it, after all that he'd risked so much to help the man! And now it was all going to come to nothing because-

And at this point, Dr. Polendina spoke, breaking his concentration. "Perhaps you ought to stick to your financials, Mr. Schnee," the doctor said sternly. "They seem an environment more suited to your particular talents."

Mr. S snapped.

And he unloaded everything onto the handicapped man, just barely keeping himself from yelling: "take a seat and learn!" during his hurried and haphazardly detailed run down on exactly why Dr. Polendina had no idea what he was talking about.

GMR reader head technology had been all the craze when Mr. S was taken off Earth. Well, it was the craze amongst the very few people that cared about information storage technology, and who even knew about the obscure projects that had been undertaken to create it. So, perhaps it would have been more accurate to say it was all the craze amongst Mr. S and his friends.

But, the fact that Mr. S had friends who had insider knowledge on the technology development was quite helpful to him, for he'd, at their behest, done some reading (just before he was taken off Earth, in fact) about AMR, GMR, Hard Disks and the various differences and interactions inherent within.

Of course, the dry technical manuals that had been tossed his way by his friends interested him very little at the time. Mr. S quickly saw through their transparent attempts to distract him from his depression by asking him to "help" them read through the shiny, proprietary documents they were showering him with; but he had little else to do, and obliged them.

So it was that Mr. S came to learn, in quite great detail, about a variety of eclectic topics, including the specifics of magnetic reader-heads.

And he did not hold back when telling Polendina all about it.

He had to watch himself with the vocabulary, and he had to remember to use some quite untechnical terms, but that came as little hindrance to his speech rate, which ran unabated as he lectured, in verse, to Polendina, exactly how a non-dust Magnetic reader head could work.

He told him all about thin films, and the magnetoresistive effect, and even the air-bearing that would allow for a close read, and all of it in no particular order, jumping from one topic to another at random, and even retreading over his older points moments after he'd presented them.

This haphazard presentation format was to his advantage, in that it made his outburst seem more spontaneous, if less coherent. And it had, at least, managed to shock Pietro into listening to and, finally, it seemed, into understanding the heart of the issue that Mr. S was getting at.

And, with this understanding, Dr. Polendina actually managed to present an obstacle that was actually a hindrance.

"But… sir," he said, a sudden newfound respect in his voice, "even if it would work as you say, the hard disk doesn't actually contain Penny's memories."

"Then what is it holding?"

"It's holding the access key to unlocking penny's current memory state. Her true memories are stored in the neuro computer, they're integrated into the operator," Polendina said, tapping his head as a visual gesture.

"Then we'll use the hard disk to access it. What's the issue?"

Pietro leaned his elbows on his knees, and blew out a tired breath. He paused there in silence for a long moment. "I… believe your idea will work," he said at last, adding. "I just never feared I'd actually get this far."

"What's the issue?" Mr. S stepped back from the window, turning slightly to face the man.

Polendina sat back up, looking at Mr. S. "The issue is that penny's repair is impossible for another reason. I… even with the hard disk, I only ever tackled that… I don't know why. But even if, in my wildest dreams, I'd managed to get the access code, I always knew Penny was beyond salvage. I just carried on for no reason I suppose. I guessed I'd never get the access code and that would be that."

"Why is her repair impossible?" Mr. S's eyes hardened.

"Because we'd need to read from and modify her neuro computer externally once we get the access code. That requires deep scanning MRIs, and there's no non-dust magnet in the world powerful enough to manage the task." Polendina almost looked apologetic, as if sorry to have wasted Mr. S's time and gotten his hopes up.

And Mr. S, too, looked sorry. A reader head was one thing, a functional MRI was quite another. Even if he knew where to start it would take years, maybe even decades before he'd be able to get-

Wait a minute…

Mr. S looked back through the window.

"What is it?" Polendina asked, captured by the sudden rapt attention Mr. S seemed to be focusing on the garden grounds below.

"You said there wasn't a non-dust magnet in the entire world powerful enough to function as an MRI," Mr. S said.

"Not just that, but the precise control you'd need over the magnetic field-"

Mr. S held his hand up, interrupting the man without looking away from the window.

"I think…" he said, turning his hand to point at the figure sitting in the sleet, "that I've just found your magnet."

In the path of Mr. S's finger, Pyrrha sat atop the base of the marble column, oblivious to the sudden attention, as she hovered her tiara over snow like an aircraft.

* * *

"Pyrrha, get in here!" Schwarz shouted, leaning out from the open window, and causing Pyrrha to break her stupor. "We're going to read from Penny's memory disk, and we need your help!"

Mr. S had gotten everything ready in record time. And even he was amazed at the speed with which he'd been able to do so.

He'd gone personally to the R&D room, while Pietro readied the test objects.

The Schnee Manor R&D room was perhaps one of the best stocked and best staffed in the world. Not a single piece of equipment, no matter how obscure, was missing from the collection.

But, of course, everyone there just wanted the super computer and 3D printer, and the line to get time on it could often be measured in days.

Mr. S, of course, got quite the boss tax, and rapidly found himself at the front of the line.

"I need the computer," he walked in through the doors with the order, Schwarz following close behind him, working in a flurry to send orders through her tablet. "Shut off the simulation," he said, walking to the pair of tired technicians that were sitting in front of the computer terminal.

"But we're almost done!" one of them protested, turning back to look at him with dark bags under her green eyes.

Schwarz didn't hesitate to push the two women away, setting them rolling to the either side on their lab chairs. She leant over the terminal, halting the current simulation with a few precise taps of the keyboard, pausing the successful cure for cancer that was currently loading in the super computer.

The green eyed technician looked like she wanted to say some very harsh words to the woman, but quickly lost the nerve once she compared their respective builds.

Meanwhile, all across the manor, a dozen engineers of the relevant type were awakened by the urgent response tone on their scrolls, rubbing the sleep from their eyes to see, posted on their scroll screens, a summons to Research and Development.

Once there, Mr. S quickly gave them the rundown.

And, he was almost disappointed on how routinely they'd managed to create the first functional prototype.

First, the technicians who they'd found hogging time at the super computer were, under the supervision of Schwarz, instructed to create an airflow model for the air bearing, as well as a magneto resistive model for the reader head.

Most of the simulation was dictated rather than created. Mainly it involved the use of stock software, mixed with various pre-existing materials models, and simulated under the auspices of a surprisingly sophisticated A.I. system.

Within minutes they had a working model.

Then came the prototype creation. And again Mr. S was amazed at the superb metallurgy that allowed for such instantaneous results. Various, strange alloys, created by mixing metal with earth dust, were manipulated like a sketch into the right shapes and properties.

And, several minutes after the first model, the first batch of reader heads were cooling on a rack. It was at this time that Pietro came through, carrying on his chair a tray of hard disks, carrying test data and covered, experimentally, with E-Type dust.

By the time they'd confirmed the absolute success of the system, the computer had already made several improvements to the original design, and was already in the process of printing them out.

Mr. S held Polendina back from going to Penny with the results just yet. He was more aware of the limitations of the technology than anyone, and the reader-head worried him. There was nothing faulty with it, of course, but he couldn't help but feeling nervous. You see, while a dust scanner could read a memory disk from across a crowded bar; the design Mr. S had furnished needed to be, oh, about several nano meters above the hard disk. This wasn't a main issue, creating the disk holder that could accommodate that had been no issue, and the air bearings would work well to keep it stabilized.

But… Mr. S wanted to be extra sure that the reader head wouldn't suddenly fail and accidentally touch the rapidly spinning hard disk. If that happened, then what the manuals called a "catastrophic hard crash" would result, and Mr. S would be - what the manuals called - "fucked."

So, Mr. S waited for the improved designs to print, and even modified them to run the reader head higher than would have been optimal. For, while the simplified reader head was comparatively under-powered, when compared to Earth's designs, the dust memory disk was so excellent at holding discrete packets, it made up for the quality difference.

And so Mr. S held them back, until they tested, and retested, and modeled and tested again the new reader heads.

At last, he was convinced to leave, and the cancer researchers were left to return to their work… just as the next group of people with scheduled time on the supercomputer arrived to take their turn.

Mr. S left happy, though, with a functional reader-head in his hand.

And it was this reader-head that he carried into the room, holding it in his hand, as he stood beside Penny's bassinet.

Beside him stood the disk carrier. Penny's chest had already been opened up, courtesy again of Schwarz, and her hard disk had been placed neatly into the carrier.

Pyrrha stood on stand by. She hovered two magnetized blocks of metal inside a coil of metal wire, spinning them rapidly and generating a steady stream of electricity that didn't have even a trace of nu-field going through it. It was an extravagant measure, but none were willing to allow even the slightest risk.

And all that remained now was for Mr. S to attach the reader-head to the disk carrier, and he wasn't doing it.

Everyone, gathered now around the bed, looked up from Penny to stare at Mr. S's frozen hand.

"Maybe we should test it again," Mr. S suggested, looking over at Polendina for some assurance.

"We've tested it enough times!" Weiss said, expressing the frustration apparent in everyone in the room, as they'd been forced to sit through the dozens of extra tests at Mr. S's behest.

"Are you sure the test disks are an accurate model for Penny's?" Mr. S turned to Polendina, hoping for a delaying answer.

"The test disks are the same model as Penny's, they were created in the same batch specifically for her."

"But what if you accidentally picked up the wrong set!"

"I only have one set of discs in my office, and I checked the serial numbers otherwise."

"But-" Mr. S began, just when the avalanche of voices reached him.

"Just put in the scanner!" Weiss said.

"Even I know that this is going to work," Ruby raised her hands and flexed her eyebrows with expressive annoyance.

"Are you serious, father?" Winter expressed.

"Just do it already," that was Blake, speaking for the first time.

"Put it in! Put it in!" Nora chanted, still laying on the couch and high from her earlier treatment.

"Put it in! Put it in!" Pinkamena said, joining Nora and keeping a surprisingly good time.

"Bro, I am not going to sit through another test," Sky said, adjusting her aviators.

"My calculations say we have already reached twenty sigma of quality assurance," Twilight poured through the numbers, speaking the results loudly, even as she huddled closer to Schwarz to show her the work projected on the tablet.

"Dallying causes down-turned demeanors, darling," Beryl chanted the words in sing song, lifting a delicate hand like an instructive school teacher.

"Wot in inter-operation is causin' this dang delay," the feminine twang of Ochre said; she adjusted her hat - emerald eyes glaring below the brim with lighthearted frustration.

"Um… if it wouldn't be too much trouble, maybe you could put it in, if you felt up to it," Haetzen put her fingers together, hardly able to look Mr. S in the eye and turning away to hide behind her pink fall of hair.

Mr. S wasn't sure what she said, drowned out as it was in the overlapping cries of everyone else in the room, even several of the gathered servants in the distance, but he was sure he could guess the content.

"Ok, fine!" he acceded at last, and clicked the reader-head solidly into place.

And, with hardly a delay, the disk spun up with an electric whir.

Pyrrha sat meditatively in a near space, sitting some distance away from everyone else, and focusing intently on her task of spinning the magnetic blocks. Though a computerized system was moderating her output, ensuring an even power flow to the reader head, she still insisted on trying to limit major deviations, and Mr. S had to respect her dedication. Although, he couldn't help but feel that the distance everyone else was keeping from her had to do with more than a desire not to disturb her focus.

Shaking his head, Mr. S took his eyes off of Pyrrha and, following everyone else's lead, focused on the display screen with the loading bar.

Currently, the loading bar was at two percent, and it was ticking up nicely every several seconds.

Everyone's eyes, save Pyrrha's, and Ren's, were trained greedily onto its progress.

Mr. S stood with calcified muscles, looking at the bar with baited breath. Weiss stood in the back with Blake, Ruby paced nervously in front of them, turning an occasional glance over to the screen. Schwarz, Twilight and Beryl stood like a troika of sentinels, expressing little, yet unable to avert their eyes from the monumental progress of the loading screen. Pinkamena sat with folded legs on the ground next to Nora's couch, hands wrapped around her crossed feet and leaning forward as she looked upon the scene with child-like interest. Nora sat above her, as if suddenly returning to her senses, looking confused but somehow still understanding the important atmosphere that had taken the space.

And Penny lay still before all of them, her burnt visage a ghastly reminder of what was at stake.

Then the loading bar jumped suddenly up to forty-five percent, and Ruby jumped in shock at the development, and everyone else barely held back from doing the same.

And then, several uneventful minutes passed and then it jumped again! This time, to fifty five percent, barely holding there for several seconds before it jumped again! And again! In quick succession; it reached the ninety percent mark!

And then came the steady march up to ninety-nine percent.

And then, once it reached ninety nine-percent, it stayed there, for two hours.

Nora had fallen asleep at this point, and Pinkamena lay on her back, hands folded across her belly and legs kicking with boredom.

Ren sat stoically beside her, watching over Nora, not once having taken his attention from the girl during the entire ordeal and occasionally replacing the wet towel on her head with a fresh one.

Ruby looked to be on the verge of sleeping, head lolling at tired intervals, and having to force herself back awake every so often.

Weiss and Blake sat stiffly next to each other; Blake appreciating the enforced silence more than her counterpart, despite the nervous jingles that affected her just as much as everyone else, as the suddenly heavy air only seemed to grow heavier with time.

Most of the servants had lost interest long ago, and those that remained did so in service of their ordinary duties.

And Jaune just sat at the far desk - his hands clasped together over the desk top, and his eyes shut tightly in great focus - as his lips mumbled silent prayers. Though normally embarrassed of his religiosity, Jaune had easily abandoned his reservations for this occasion, as sudden hope carried him to plead - in his meditative entreaties - that god bless this download.

And, who knows, because, just then, the loading bar hit one hundred percent, and the "loading complete" jingle played over the speakers.

Almost all turned to the scene.

Save Nora, who's fluttering lids were still closed in peaceful sleep, and Pyrrha, who still focused with great severity on the important task set before her - all were entranced by the celebratory jingle, and the satisfyingly complete loading bar that ran across the screen.

All hearts seemed aligned as they lifted with the image, and they all rose in a sudden cheer, running over to heap congratulations onto a very embarrassed Dr. Polendina.

"She's saved! She's saved!" Ruby cheered, skipping like a flower girl, and leaving behind a trail of rose petals to mark her path. "You saved her!" she chanted, gesturing over to a stunned Polendina, who's stuttering attempts to correct her were drowned out in the wash of everyone else's cheers.

Weiss and Blake hugged with sudden emotion, temporarily forgetting their previous worries. "Thank you!" they both said with sudden emotion at the man, "you've no idea how much good you've done for us!" Weiss finished.

Ruby suddenly stopped next to Jaune with a puff of Rose petals, shaking the focused boy out of his prayer. "Jaune! Wake up! Penny's saved!"

Jaune shook his head, blinking his eyes open as he processed the news.

Once the words had hit home, Jaune's eyes flashed with glorious understanding.

"Thank the lord!" Jaune shouted, jumping up and raising his hands with reverential spirit.

"Yeah, you're welcome!" Mr. S snapped, slightly miffed at the lack of credit he seemed to be getting.

None heard him over the general jubilation, however. And by the time things had quieted enough for Dr. Polendina to get a word in, Mr. S had already cooled down, and was there at his side just in time to stop him.

"Well," Dr. Polendina began, "it was really Mister Schn-"

"Actually," Mr. S interrupted the man with a hand on his shoulder, and took him aside for a moment, moving him so that they stood in privacy next to Schwarz. "Let's keep quiet about my contribution to this, ok?"

"But… but why?" Dr. Polendina asked.

"Would anyone really believe you?" Mr. S asked in answer.

Dr. Polendina seemed perturbed in thought, but at last came to the stern conclusion: "If I told them they would," he answered.

'Well, I can't have anyone getting suspicious about me this soon,' Mr. S thought, and said:

"Well, maybe, but some people still wouldn't. They'd think I was paying you to lie so as to make myself seem better… needless to say, that wouldn't be good for either of our reputations. So, let's keep this as our little secret," Mr. S patted the man's shoulder for good measure, sure that he wouldn't be likely to betray him on this, considering the recent favors. "Just tell the R&D teams it was your design."

"Well, if you're certain that's what you want," Polendina agreed, with not too little discomfort about the prospect, and not even pretending to understand the logic.

"I'm certain," Mr. S smiled, and walked away from the man. Schwarz followed, hardly questioning Mr. S's decision, much to his surprise. He'd have to come up with a backstory as to why Mr. Schnee knew so much at some point. That point, however, was far distant, because, as all the kids hugged and jumped behind him, Mr. S suddenly recalled the treacherous woman still trapped in his basement, as well as the one week time limit he'd been given to solve the entire situation.

Well, at least he'd done one good thing before he died.

He turned to look back at the celebrating crowd, and he couldn't help but notice that Pyrrha was missing, an empty spot of ground marking her previous position next to the generator.

"Schwarz, where's Pyrrha?"

"She's gone to the detainment district," Schwarz said, knowing the answer even before she looked through the camera footage on her tablet to confirm. "She's requesting to see her mother."

* * *

The detainment district was a single block of armored metal, and the interior showed this with panache. The walls all gleamed with stainless finish, and the only break from the sea of metal came in the form of the energy fields that bridged the cell openings.

"I'm sorry, mother," Pyrrha said, sitting on the bench that ran along the wall just outside of Thetis's cell.

Thetis sat stiffly in a comfortable looking chair - one that she'd turned to face away from the cell opening, so that Pyrrha only saw the woman's dark ponytail hanging from the back of her head.

"I shouldn't have said those things to you," Pyrrha continued. "They were untrue and wrong and I never meant them, even when…"

"Even as you said them?" Thetis asked, her voice under perfect control and showing no emotion.

"I… I'm sorry," Pyrrha said again.

"And what is it you want, this time?" Thetis asked, a cynical hook in her voice.

Pyrrha winced. She'd hardly hated herself more than at this very moment. She wished, more than anything, that she could have said "nothing" to her mother; she almost even considered lying, and saying just that: but… Mr. Schnee had been the one who showed her the precise number of coils to make in the generator, and she suspected he had more than a small hand in the development of the new scanner - not to mention, it was by his effort they'd even been allowed to see Penny in the first place...

"Penny's not dead, mother," Pyrrha settled at last, gripping her hands and looking down at them with intense focus. "She… they've figured out a way they might be able to bring her back. They just succeeded in transferring her access codes."

"Oh, that is surprising," Thetis said boredly, still stiffly facing the far wall. "You shouldn't believe everything that Jacques tells you, dear. It'll only end in disappointment."

"No, but they really did do it! I saw them do it! Doctor Polendina was there to oversee it!"

"How did they manage to read anything off that memory disk?" Thetis pronounced, flagrantly dismissive of the idea.

"They made a new scanner," Pyrrha answered, happy to distract herself with small talk. "It doesn't use dust. They just magnetized the metal with electricity."

"Hmm," Thetis hmmd with slight disapproval. "They should have called me in, if they were going to do that."

"Yes, I suppose so," Pyrrha laughed, encouraged somewhat, by the slight aliveness that had taken her Mother's voice.

Thetis was silent.

And Pyrrha was once again faced with the discomfort of her request.

"Well?" Thetis said at last, "out with it. I don't have all day, you know."

"I want you to let Robyn ask you, mother."

Pyrrha gestured her left arm to Robyn Hill, who sat hunched on a distant bench, looking up at them from where she'd been staring intently at the floor, trying to give the pair some semblance of privacy.

Mister Schnee and Schwarz had spent the past twelve hours intermittently talking with Thetis, trying to convince her to take a truth examination. Thetis had adamantly refused, and Robyn hadn't been too enthusiastic about the whole ordeal, either, requiring some very heavy handed tactics by Schwarz to even come to the Schnee Manor in the first place.

"No." Thetis answered her, still in that perfect calm. "I won't allow that woman to, as you say, 'ask' anything of me."

"But mother, I know you're innocent, so why won't you-"

"If you know I'm innocent, then you shouldn't need her verification," Thetis countered.

"But not everyone knows that!" Pyrrha denied, standing up and cutting through the air with an arm. "Not everyone knows you! Not like I do!"

"Everyone is on my side, Pyrrha. No one has any reason to believe Jacques' unreasonable claims, least of all you. Besides, I'll be out of here before the week is out, whether or not I agree to the interrogation."

"You can be out today if you just let Robyn ask you!" Pyrrha pleaded. She looked back to Robyn questioningly.

Robyn looked up at Pyrrha. "I'm not allowed to ask anything of her unless she agrees to it beforehand. Even if we did make contact, she could just refuse to answer."

"And I wouldn't answer," Thetis affirmed, nodding her head resolutely, her pony tail running across her back as she did so.

"But-"

"But why are you so invested all of a sudden?" Thetis asked, sounding somehow colder at the prospect.

"I just don't want you to have to say here any longer;" Pyrrha could feel her guts churning as she lied.

And she didn't feel any better when Mr. S walked in, trailed by Schwarz.

"Pyrrha," Mr. S acknowledged with a nod, knowing from the security footage what Pyrrha had been attempting.

"Mr. Schnee," Pyrrha said, with forced coldness.

"And you're here, too," Thetis said, sounding sick. "If you're going to ask me again to subject myself to an interrogation, then I should let you know that better people than you have failed."

"Mother," Pyrrha's voice softened as she pleaded with Thetis again, "all of this suspicion-"

"Could have been averted if Jacques wasn't such a paranoid nutcase," Thetis answered. "I have no desire or reason to play along with his head games. I will leave here because I have done nothing wrong - not because I have bowed to enough of Jacques' whims to get his pass of approval."

"Thetis," Mr. S said, voice stern as he turned it onto her. "The security footage shows an entire hallway's surveillance shutting down simultaneously for an entire minute. The regeneration systems were blocked. Even the warning systems had been interfered with. Can you think of any other person who could have done such a thing?"

"I don't know," Thetis answered. "Maybe the devil did it."

"Mother, this is serious. I know you didn't do it. But as long as you refuse to answer, you're only introducing more confusion!" Pyrrha implored Thetis with renewed passion, forgetting her earlier, forced coldness.

"Let there be confusion," Thetis said. "As long as you know the truth, Pyrrha, why should you care whether the likes of Schnee refuse to believe it?"

Pyrrha took on a sudden heat to her voice, "because lives are at risk! And he needs to know, if they're going to get anywhere with this investigation!"

Thetis stood up suddenly, turning to face Pyrrha. She flicked her hand as she did so, sending the chair flying to the side, and letting it shatter against the armored wall of her sell in an explosion of shattered wood.

Pyrrha was surprised by the sudden motion. She was more surprised to see the gresh tears that had welled up in her mothers eyes, as well as the dried tear stains that marred her cheeks. Thetis had been crying for several hours. She'd been crying over the course of their entire conversation. Pyrrha winced at the observation - remembering the potent words she'd said to the woman not hours ago.

"Oh," Thetis's voice shook violently, a mixture of matronly strength and impotent anger as she breathed heavily in forced attempts to keep her tears from reaching her voice. "I knew I'd been losing you, Pyrrha. But I never imagined you'd come to this…"

"Mother-"

"Oh, don't call me that!" Thetis snarled. "You've only ever called me that when you needed something from me! Only when you wanted something! Why don't you call me as you really think of me: a selfish, bitter old woman who can't care about anyone but herself! Does that ring any bells!"

"I never meant that!" Pyrrha was on the verge of her own tears, now.

"And, oh, yes, that's just what you say! Once I've outlived my usefulness you run away! When I fail you even once, you betray me like this!" Thetis whipped a hand out at Mr. S, who reared back from the sudden attention.

"I didn't-"

"Oh, I imagine he's the one who fixed Penny, isn't he?" Thetis huffed a deep breath at the mixed emotions of shame and anger and unbridled hatred. "Is that why you've chosen his side, now? Was I such a fool to think you would stay loyal to me!?"

"This isn't about sides! I've always thought of you!" Pyrrha said, fitting her words in between Thetis's next.

"Are you even my Pyrrha anymore!" Thetis accused, just barely keeping her composure as she looked at the strange girl in front of her. Who's ruddy brown hair and teal-blue eyes never seemed to occur to her as anyone she could ever have known. "Do you even feel anything for me anymore? Have you ever?" Thetis stood tall and with a wide stance, seeming unperturbed by the streaming tears that ran down her expressive face.

"I'm just trying to make everything right!" Pyrrha yelled, louder than she'd ever spoken before, trying to regain something from the sudden loss of control she felt.

Thetis paused, eyes flashing rapidly from Pyrrha to Mr. S, a wide, innocent look to them, as if she were a child discovering something horrible for the first time.

"You… you really have gone over to his side, haven't you?" she spoke softer now, raising an arm and backing away, as if distancing herself from some rabid animal.

"I haven't!" Pyrrha denied.

"I've been rotting here in a holding cell, and the first person you think to protect is Jacques?" she said the words sadly and with disbelief, never having imagined that her earlier, emotional accusations could have carried even a grain of truth. "Have I really been so cruel to you, Pyrrha?"

"This isn't about your enmities!" Pyrrha said, supported by her own anger, now. "I want you to get out of here, too!" Pyrrha drew closer until she was leaning on the glowing screen, as if to make up for Thetis's retreat. "I care about you!"

"This was because I couldn't fix Penny, wasn't it?" Thetis seemed to be talking to herself, now. Repeating her earlier words as if having run out of new ways to express them. "This was because he got you what you wanted, isn't it?"

"Mother-"

"Isn't it!?" Thetis yelled, demanding the answer.

Pyrrha only lifted another hand to the screen, leaning her head against it.

"Pyrrha," Thetis said, walking up to the screen suddenly. "Pyrrha," she called again, drawing the girl's eyes up to her.

Pyrrha was shocked into silence, frozen in place when she saw her Mother's eyes.

Because, in Thetis's eyes, Pyrrha saw... boundless love... and caring. It was just like she'd remembered in her dreams, and such a drastic change from the tortured accusations that hounded them not moments ago.

"Mother," Pyrrha whispered.

Thetis looked directly into Pyrrha's eyes, losing none of the love in her own, and yet burdened by great anxiety and depression as she did so.

"I …" Thetis began, "If you ask it of me, I will allow Robyn to question me," she said. "If you ask me to, I will allow her to question me."

Pyrrha, however, felt herself numbing at the offer. She was terrified by the implications. Because, when she looked into Thetis's eyes, she saw nothing but fearful uncertainty.

Thetis wasn't making the offer to help Jaques. She was making the offer to find out, for herself, where Pyrrha's heart truly lay.

Her earlier, emotional accusations, Pyrrha could bear, because she knew them to be untrue. And Thetis, too, knew this even as she accused Pyrrha - that she had been carried away by her recent pains.

This… test, however, told Pyrrha that Thetis felt some actual, true uncertainty in her heart about the regard in which her own daughter held her.

If Pyrrha asked Thetis to go through with the test for Mr. Schnee's sake, Thetis would take that as evidence that Pyrrha despised her, and Pyrrha would never be able to convince her mother otherwise. Pyrrha knew this as she looked into her mother's eyes.

And Pyrrha knew that, no matter her intentions, no matter her true feelings, that she wouldn't be able to avoid bringing that pain upon her mother. She had already brought Thetis to tears, and she was now asking herself whether she was willing to hurt her mother in this way… whether she 'despised' her mother enough, that she would allow their relationship to disintegrate in order to get the information for Mr. Schnee.

Pyrrha knew that her mother was innocent. She also knew she wouldn't be able to convince Mr. Schnee of that fact.

The only way to convince Mr. Schnee and Schwarz, and to set them on a more correct path - one that could possibly avert something more drastic - would be to ask her mother to prove her innocence to them.

To ask Thetis to go through with this. To ask the proud matron to comply with Mr. Schnee: the person who had illegally jailed her, and attacked her servants, and visited a thousand other slights upon her… Theris was a woman of her word, and she would comply with the request, but that request would be the last thing Thetis ever allowed Pyrrha to say to her.

And the question in Thetis's eyes, "do you despise me" seemed to justify itself now.

To ask her mother to do such a thing: it would mean that Pyrrha didn't care about whether her mother stayed in her life or not. Or, rather, that she cared about other things more.

Pyrrha was angry at her mother, now, for having forced the conundrum.

Her mother, if she just hadn't been so stubborn, if she just hadn't been so unwilling to compromise, if she hadn't been so proud, she wouldn't threaten to end their relationship just because of a request! And Pyrrha wouldn't now be forced to choose between her relationship with her mother and…

What was she getting out of this, in exchange for such a thing?

Pyrrha closed her eyes and searched within herself. She… no longer felt angry at her mother for being so unreasonable.

Pyrrha understood, now, just what she'd done to Thetis to bring her to this. She'd run away from her, she'd merged with Amber without telling her, she'd called her to the Schnee Manor and gotten her arrested, humiliated her, cursed her with insults she would be ashamed to throw on her enemies…

She had only herself to blame, Pyrrha believed, that things had come to such an extreme as this. And Pyrrha was now forced to choose between her Mothers' companionship and… what was it she was getting in exchange? Pyrrha asked herself. Would she lose her mother in order to gain Mr. Schnee's favor?

No. The answer came to Pyrrha, as clear as any answer ever had, since Penny's death.

Would she lose her mother in order to help save the life of the man who'd saved Penny?

No. Again the answer came just as clearly, if with more effort.

But… Pyrrha was a huntress. And she'd only just started feeling that way again, now that the news of Penny's future revival breathed life into her. And, as a huntress, she remembered her first convictions. That she'd, promised, sworn to herself, that she would be willing to sacrifice, just to earn the title to herself. She'd promised that she'd help make the better world, that she would smile in the face of even the greatest adversity.

She'd failed in that last goal as of late.

But, would she be willing to sacrifice everything she and her mother had together? Everything they'd built between each other over eighteen years, to save the life of one stranger? One who had been an enemy of her mother's since the beginning? She didn't care about what favors Mr. Schnee may or may not have done, so what was he to her except another person among millions?

But… Pyrrha could help him… she was perhaps the only person in a position to help him.

But, how would she help him, really? All Pyrrha would accomplish with such a sacrifice would be to, what… decrease the likelihood of his death by some nebulous amount? Lead him away from one of a thousand dangerous red-herrings?

No, even if Thetis continued to allow Mr. Schnee to fool himself, it was still likely that Mister Schnee would survive. There was no chance anyone could visit harm upon him, given the security of the castle.

Maybe, even if her mother said nothing, and Mr. Schnee continued following the false lead she represented... maybe he would still find the true culprit anyway? Maybe Pyrrha wouldn't need to help him?

But… she allowed herself to consider… if he, or anyone else, did die - if she was wrong, and the confusion caused Mr. Schnee and Schwarz to misstep, and somebody died... was that a risk she was willing to let others face because of her silence? To have another death on her conscience?

Would she even allow herself, through inaction, to contribute even one ten thousands of a part to the death of one person?

Pyrrha tried to console herself, that this would be her sacrifice alone to make, at least.

But, contrary to her earlier conviction, there was nothing in Pyrrha's eyes but sorrow when she forced herself to look into her mother's eyes and said:

"Mother, please allow Robyn to examine you."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Review! Review, I said!


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